Embrace of an Angel
by Lothiel
Summary: In a small, superstitious town, Christine Daae is chosen as a sacrifice to the quell the evil that has risen in the surrounding forest. With only the memory of her father for comfort, she finds something else in the woods. AU EC
1. Chapter 1

This is my first attempt at POTO fan fiction. I have written many times before, only for other interests/shows, and never on this site before. I've been reading a lot of stories here and have been getting the urge to produce something of my own. I hope you enjoy this one. It's partially from an idea I've had for a while, but decided to put it into the context of POTO. I've labelled this story as AU since it doesn't take place in the familiar Paris setting but an entirely new location with elements of fantasy, I suppose. The time period is roughly set around the actual time period of the movie/books. If it helps, I was thinking of M. Night Shamalan's The Village when I wrote this first chapter. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this story just as much as I enjoy writing it. I welcome questions and reviews.

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The woods had left its mark upon the town this year. The small town, tucked away in a remote corner of the country and nearly entirely surrounded by the great woods, save for a road leading up from the south, was the last inhabited place before the wilderness beyond. It lay along a great road, leading from the larger cities to the south. Travelers from the larger cities often dismissed the town's inhabitants as old-fashioned and superstitious. They were stuck in the ways of the past and seemed to refuse new ideas. The summer had been particularly cruel for the townspeople. The weather had been harsh for the usual temperate area. Heavy torrents of rain spilled from the skies nearly every day. The wolves were unusually active this year, wandering too close to the town's limits and sometimes even crossing the border.

But nearly everyone agreed that _this_ year was worse. Darkness seemed to spread across the sky and fill the minds of the people with hopelessness and despair. It was obvious to an outsider that the weather was dampening the people's spirits. There was talk of strange sightings in the woods by those who dared to journey through the dark, menacing trees to the north. Of shadowed horsemen. Whispers among the trees. Of a strange voice that echoed throughout the words, but of which no source could be found. The signs were becoming more frequent, and by summer's end, the town council decided that action must be taken.

The eldest of the council pulled out a thick, worn, dust laden book. He brushed a worn hand across the surface before opening the book and gazing at the text that appeared on yellowed paper. It was a chronicle of the town, going back hundreds of years to nearly its founding. Steeped in superstition and ignorance, the town's inhabitants had recorded a history of the strange goings-on. To them, the forest held an ancient evil. It was said by some that a war fought ages ago in the north had left its stain upon the land. That spirits of the dead haunted the far recesses of the forest. The people had spent years trying to figure out what to do; how to prevent the woods from overgrowing the town, destroying crops, and killing all of the inhabitants. Their solution had been a strange one, but in their ignorant eyes, it had worked for the last three hundred years.

Each time the signs began to appear, which had occurred only twice in the last few centuries, a lottery was held. Each adult citizen cast his or her name into the lottery and prayed fervently that his or her name would not be chosen. Such a person would carry the burden of the town. That person would be a sacrifice to the forest. But following such a sacrifice, the people believed that the problem was solved. The forest was satiated. Two men had gone to their deaths since the practice was instated nearly three hundred years earlier. One had never returned. The other was found dead, still tied to the tree miles into the woods, apparently attacked by hungry wolves.

The council agreed at the end of the summer that something must be done. They had waited nearly 70 years and now the signs were showing again. The lottery must be drawn. Census-takers appeared at every door and recorded the names of every adult in the town. It was on a cold, dreary Saturday, that the names were finally assembled. The eldest council member slipped his fingers among the many ballots and grasped onto a random slip of paper, feeling his throat tighten and his heart pound, as he pulled the paper out. A single name appeared on the paper. A lovely name.

_Christine Daae_

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A young lady sat at a small desk, illuminated by a single candle, and wrote quietly in her journal. The breeze from the window swept through her thin nightgown and sent a shiver down her spine. She rose quickly and crossed the room, shutting the window before returning to her writings. Christine Daae had not lived in the town all of her life. She had come when she was a small child. Her father, Gustave, had been a prolific musician and had brought his little daughter with him on his travels. They had settled in the town for a few years, living in a small cottage owned by a matronly figure in the town, Madame Giry. Her father enjoyed the peace that the area offered, compared to the bustle of the larger cities. Little Christine had been enthralled with the beauty of the land. She often walked through the flower-laden fields or strolled along the boundaries of the woods, always trying to gaze through the tall trunks to catch a glimpse of what lay beyond.

Christine was not just any young girl of the town. Her father, having been educated in music and literature, had bestowed his gifts upon his daughter. He taught her to sing at a very young age. It was not uncommon for the two to perform together at a host's house. Gustave would pull out his violin as his young, almost angelic daughter lifted her small voice in song. His collection of books from his many travels were frequently pulled out and read. Christine especially adored the fairy tales from distant lands.

But the joy and contentment that filled her young life was quickly cut short. As she had grown into an adolescent, Christine watched in fear as her father's health began to deteriorate. The parent she had grown to love so immensely slipped from the world when she was fourteen. Young Christine, with her long, curled, chocolate hair and warm, brown eyes, stood beside her father's grave adorned in black. Madame Giry, with her young daughter Meg at her side, clasped the girl's hand as the last of the dirt was piled atop her father's grave. The woman took it upon herself to raise Christine in her own household.

By the time she reached eighteen, Christine had grown into a beauty young woman. She was a graceful, lithe creature, not too short but not too tall. Her long hair was thick and luxurious. Her beautiful large, brown eyes were more expressive then any other aspect of her form. Her voice, though now rarely raised in song, except for the visits to her father's grave, was stunning. But the emotion and joy that used to fill it were gone now. She no longer found any pleasure in singing. It was a reminder of the past. Of what she did not have.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

"Yes?" Christine asked softly.

The door opened and Madame Giry smiled sadly her. "Why are you up so late, my dear?"

Christine glanced down at her journal. "I could not sleep. I needed to write," she responded quietly.

"Christine," Madame Giry began, lacing her fingers together nervously, "there is someone here to see you. Can you come to the door?"

She nodded, slipping a robe over her nightgown before following the older woman down the hall. Madame Giry walked with a slow, deliberate step. She was tall and slender, with a dark fitted gown drifting down to her feet, and dark, red hair pulled back neatly into a bun. Meg opened her door as the two passed, peering out into the hallway with sleepy eyes.

"Go back to bed, Meg," Antoinette said sternly. Meg's blue eyes flashed in confusion before the door was shut.

Madame Giry entered the parlor and set her oil-lamp down on a table before continuing to the door. A man stood in the doorway, having removed his hat, and looked at Christine with a stranger, serious gaze as she followed behind Giry.

"Now, Monsieur, what news have you brought?" Madame Giry asked, her brow furrowed.

"Forgive me, madame," he said simply, "but I bring news from the council. As you know, a lottery was drawn today."

Anger flashed in Antoinette's eyes. _Superstitious fools_, she thought.

"I'm afraid that Christine Daae's name was chosen."

Madame Giry sunk against the nearest wall. Her hand was clutched at her heart. Christine let out a strangled cry and stepped back from the door.

"But she cannot. . .she is too young," Giry protested, gathering her senses together and pulling herself from the wall.

"She is eighteen and by law, an adult now," the man responded. He nodded at the young woman who stood, quaking behind the imposing figure of Madame Giry. "We will come tomorrow."

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The next morning was dreary. The sky had not lifted its cloudy, grey veil. Christine walked blindfolded, amidst the small group of men that were to lead her to _the place_. She wore a simple ivory gown chosen from the small wardrobe in her room. _If I am to be with my father again, among the angels in heaven, I will wear my finest dress for him_, she thought sadly to herself. She had offered no protest this morning when they came to her door. No fit of crying. Meg had stood behind in the hall, weeping bitter tears into her sleeves. Madame Giry, the woman who had grown to be a mother to Christine, stood beside her at the door. She dropped a small crucifix on a gold chain into the girl's whitened hand, and closed her fingers gently over the item. 

"It was your father's," she whispered into Christine's ear. "I cannot prevent what these men are to do. If I had the strength, I would. But believe that what they say is false. There is no evil in those woods, only the ignorance of these closed-minded people. No spirit will steal your soul. Remember your father's love for you. That is real."

Christine nodded gently. Madame Giry placed a soft kiss on her cheek before turning the young girl to face her, her arms clutching at her shoulders.

"An angel will watch over you," she said, almost urgently.

_An angel will watch over me_, she repeated to herself as she walked blindly. _An angel of music_, she added. Her father had once told her about the angels of heaven. How an angel of music would guide her when he was no longer there to care for her. She wanted to believe his words. But her fear grew as they traveled deeper into the mysterious woods. This was the realm that she always dreamt about. She had longed to know its secrets. Now she did not want to be in this dreadful place. She wanted, more then anything, to feel her father's embrace. A tear slipped from beneath her blindfold.

It was not long before they found the quiet place in the woods. A small clearing lay amongst the thick trees, which towered overhead and blocked the sun with their leafy canopy. No underbrush grew in this small area. Only a single tree grew in the center of the circular enclosure. The men drew her up towards the tree and bound her to its thick trunk. They pulled the blindfold from her eyes, but it did little good, as the forest was already growing dark as evening drew near. She watched them leave, fighting back her tears, and clenched the small crucifix in her hand.

The sounds of the woods began to consume the footsteps of the men as they journeyed farther and farther away. Christine stood trembling in their wake.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

She stood there for hours, or what she believed had been hours. The rain had trickled down upon her through the canopy above, soaking her gown through to her skin. She shivered uncontrollably, leaning forward against the ropes that bound her arms and waist to the tree. Her hair hung before her, wet and plastered to her ivory skin. Christine moaned, crying out softly in the still woods.

"Father," she whispered to herself, "Please help me. I'm so cold and it is so dark. I'm afraid."

She hung her head and wept in the dark. All she could see, beyond the shadows of the forest around her, was the shimmer of her dress in what little moonlight had managed to seep through the leaves.

"Where is my angel, papa?" she cried softly, "Where is my angel?"

The cold was beginning to fatigue her. She felt her body slowly slide down the trunk, before the grip of the ropes held her firmly in place. She remembered warmer times. She remembered sitting in front of a roaring fire while her father played his violin, and her gaze would drift to the flames as they licked at the wood. Her face, softened by the light of the fire, felt so warm that she felt a smile tugging at her lips. She remembered his songs and felt her frozen lips begin to move as the words slipped from her mouth. The song echoed amongst the trees. To a passerby, it must have sounded like an angel. A voice too pure and sweet to have come from the darkness of the woods.

But her song ended, and she felt the bitterness of her situation sink in. She had struggled for hours to loose herself from the ropes, but it was no use. She did not have the strength or ability to squeeze through them. If only she had a knife. But even then, her fingers were too cold to clasp any object. They were numb and stiff, buried into the folds of her sodden dress.

A rustle sounded. She swung her head up and glanced around in the darkness. But the shadows of the trees obscured her vision. The forest blurred together into an impenetrable darkness. She whimpered softly, afraid of what might be lurking beyond her vision. Then her eyes caught movement among the trees. Should she stay still and quiet? She was so cold that she did not care anymore. If there was a chance of freeing herself, she had to take it. But her mind was starting to slip into an inevitable sleep. Her thoughts began to swirl together.

"Who. . .who's there?" she called out, her voice falling from trembling lips.

She thought she heard the whinny of a horse several yards away. But nothing followed, and she thought her mind might be playing tricks on her. She heard another rustle, to the other side, just beyond the edge of the clearing.

"Please," she cried out, "if someone is there, answer me!"

She remembered the stories that some of the townspeople had once told her. Of the wild beasts of the forest. The wolves were particularly fierce and known to attack lone travelers. There were also stories of horsemen. But not like normal men. They would appear and then disappear. Perhaps ghosts of long dead warriors. But the most hushed story of them all involved a phantom. A spirit. . .no, perhaps a monster, that lurked deep in the forest and killed men who wandered in. Not much was known about that particular creature, but perhaps that was the reason why Christine feared the presence of the phantom more then anything else.

More footfalls sounded, but they were so soft and skillfully placed among the forest floor, one could barely hear them.

No one had answered her. She choked back a sob and closed her eyes. She tried hard to remember her father's voice and to remember the sweetest of his songs. But even that was not enough to quench the terror that coursed through her body.

A dark shadow suddenly loomed before her. She could tell, because the faint starlight above was extinguished from her view. All she could see now were two glowing eyes. Not like an animals, but different. Aware and very intelligent. She tried to scream, but the sound that came from her throat was hoarse.

"Father, I'm scared," she cried out in her delirium. "Please send your angel to me. I. . .I don't want to die."

Her prayer was cut off when an arm brushed passed the ropes. She could see the glint of a blade in the darkness and gasped. But the blade dug into the ropes and soon they lay at her feet. Without the support of the ropes to hold her up, she felt her weakened body slip down the trunk of the tree as her knees buckled beneath her. But another arm slipped beneath her as she fell and lifted her from the wet earth. The last thing she remembered, before slipping into unconsciousness, was being drawn up into someone's arms and feeling the warmth of a body against her cheek. She felt a heavy cloak being drawn around her before sleep finally claimed her.


	3. Chapter 3

_I've been thinking long and hard about how I want this story to unfold. I think I had a little inspiration after a well-needed bubble bath. And even though this chapter might be a little short, I needed to get this one out tonight._

_Thank you to all of the reviewers so far. I appreciate the encouragement!_

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**Chapter 3**

It was the faintest of sounds that awoke her. But the sound was so rich, she could not help but pull herself from the depths of sleep. A gentle, deep humming could be heard. She felt her eyelash brush against something as her eyes struggled to open. It was then that she realized she was resting against someone. Her cheek lay against soft, dark material. As her head moved ever so slightly with rising and falling of a breath, she realized that she was leaning against someone's chest. The sound, so lovely in its melody and skill, filled her with contentment like she had not felt for a long time.

She yearned to turn her head, to find the source of the sound. But her movements were slow and tiring. She strained her neck to catch a glimpse of the maker of that voice. All she could see above her, blocking the expanse of stars that now spread out above in the night sky, was a dark figure. Even this close, she could not make out the details of its face. The figure was hooded, with a heavy cloak spread across its wide shoulders.

The hood turned in the starlight, and she could see two gleaming eyes shining down upon her. They were so bright and vivid in the starlight, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. They stole across her face and settled briefly on her eyes. It was then that she thought no mortal could possibly have eyes such as those. They shone with such brilliance. Such beauty! They were powerful and frightening, like the terrible beauty of an angel.

"Angel," the word slipped from her mouth without restraint. It was almost a plea, but it carried such reverence and devotion.

The face was lifted from her sight and the arms that she had forgotten held tighter to her frail body. She heard the voice continue its gentle humming. There was something incredibly beautiful and hypnotic about it, and she felt herself lulled into a trance, forgetting the dampness of her clothes or the chill on her face. She nestled deeper into the cloak that surrounded her before falling back into sleep's arms.

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_The moon was high and nothing but the howl of a distant wolf sounded in the forest. She shivered, pulling her cloak about her and lifting the hood over her hair. Her wide eyes caught the light of the moon. She heard it again. Closer this time. Frantic in her movements, she spun around at the sound of the wolf drawing nearer. She looked down at her feet for some strange reason and saw that they were bare. The soft, smooth skin of her ankles was scraped and bloodied._

_She could not run. The feet that were injured were rooted in place. She felt the chill of the night air on her skin and drew her hands up to rub the cool flesh of her arms. _

_There it was again. The footsteps in the woods. Surely it was a spirit of the woods. No, she reminded herself, it cannot be. I will not be like them. I will not think with such a small mind. But as the trees began to part, their lofty trunks almost bending to the will of the approaching figure, she clasped a trembling hand to her chest. The phantom. The ghost of the woods. It does haunt these trees. It comes for me, she thought in fear. _

_She tried to back away, but her feet remained motionless. She felt her body tumble to the ground roughly. Christine looked up as the blackness parted and a figure stepped into the small clearing. It was a creature tall and strong. The height was menacing enough, but the cold, furious demeanor of the figure filled her with even more fear. _

_I will not give in to it, she thought to herself. My Lord and my father watch over me._

_It walked before her, planting itself before her. Looking up from the ground where she lay, like a scared child before the most horrible of monsters, she felt her courage swiftly leave her. As the phantom looked down upon her, still cloaked in shadow, she caught a glimpse of a bone-white mask upon its face. No, half of it, she noticed. The other side was bathed in darkness. _

_It reached out a hand to her, extending long, but masculine fingers towards her neck. She felt him grip her neck. Icy fingers pressed into her flesh and choked her. She tried to scream but found it useless. A man? No, this was no man. He must be a demon of these woods._

_

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Christine awoke in a strange bed. Her limbs were twisted amongst the sheets and her skin was clammy. She could still feel the fingers at her neck. Brushing the skin with slender fingers, she choked back a sob as the dream began to fade. A bed, she thought again. Soft pillows lay beneath her head and a heavy blanket and sheets were pulled up over her body. There was light! A tall window lay near the bed with heavy, dark drapes shutting out most of the light. It felt like it had been so long since she had seen sunlight. Her face moved instinctively towards the warm rays. She willed her limbs to move and finally gave up, collapsing back upon the lavish bed.

She lay there for a moment, pressing her hand against her eyes, trying to rub away the fatigue. _What horrible nightmares_, she thought to herself. But then she began to remember a voice. A voice so beautiful, so enthralling, that she was filled with emotion. Emotion that threatened to brim over and strip her of her sanity. It was a voice that reminded her of her father. The tone and depth conveyed in its deliverance filled her with more comfort then anything had since her father. But there was so much more to it. There were more emotions there then she could describe. Some that soothed her and some that, she could not explain why, frightened her.

"God grant me this gift again. That I might hear my angel's voice again," her prayer rose in the hushed room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: I was encouraged after finding so many positive reviews. Sorry I can't answer each one, but I just wanted to say thank you. I tried to take more time to write and give you a longer chapter. I know how much I hate short chapters too. L**

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**Chapter 4**

Christine walked about the strange room that she had awoken in. She would never have expected to find herself in such a room. It was large and richly furnished with a large four poster bed, small desk, dresser, wardrobe, vanity, and of course the tall, curtained windows that ran along the outside wall. She had never had a room like this before. Her room at Madame Giry's was small and humble, but it served its purpose, and she could not imagine having more.

A tall, ornate mirror lay against one wall, opposite of the bed. She ran her fingers along the edges, admiring the elaborate golden, floral frame. The mirror itself was cold to the touch. She glided her long, slender fingers over the glass and pulled back suddenly. A strange feeling coursed through her for a moment and then was gone.

_My dress_, she suddenly thought. Glancing down at her attire, she noticed that the sodden gown she wore in the forest had been replaced with a soft, very feminine nightgown. But who had attended her? She shrunk back in embarrassment.

Opening the large wardrobe, she found an assortment of dresses. Finding no trace of her own, Christine chose a modest green gown and silently thanked the woman who would be lending her the dress. After changing and brushing her hair before the vanity, she sat down before the smaller mirror and looked at her reflection. Her hair looked somewhat improved, the curls tucked back neatly behind her shoulders. But her face looked very pale. She brought a hand to her cheek as though not believing what the mirror was showing her. The sensation suddenly triggered a memory. A memory of the dream that she had gratefully forgotten. Even now, she could feel the sensation of being so along and vulnerable, unable to move, and watching as icy hands moved towards her neck.

She drew her hand down along her neck and a shiver fled her body. Now, when she met her eyes in the mirror, she noticed how wide they had become. Filled with such fright! But there was something else in the depths of her wide, glistening eyes that seemed foreign to her. It felt as though she were looking at someone else in the mirror. She immediately drew away from the vanity, nearly knocking over the plush chair that stood before it. Her heart was racing and she didn't know why.

Christine slowly made her way towards the door. She had heard no one approach it and was reluctant to leave the safety of the room, but something compelled her to venture out. Cracking the door open as softly as she could, she peered out and glanced down a darkened hallway. The room she had slept in seemed to be in the middle of a long corridor. But to the left, and further down, a soft glow flickered on the walls. A fire, she thought.

She snuck out, inching her way slowly down the hall, with only the soft rustle of her gown betraying her subterfuge. As she approached the end of the hallway, she found an entrance to a larger room on the right. On the far wall, an impressive fireplace with a large crackling fire beckoned to her. The soft glow was enticing and she could not resist slipping from the shadows and gliding into the room towards the fireplace. Nothing else mattered. She stood only a short distance away and warmed her hands in the heat from the fire. The fire warmed her face and she found her lips pulling back into a smile.

"_Play me a song, papa!"_

"_What would you like me to play?"_

"_Anything!"_

"_Alright, my dear. But on one condition. . .you must sing."_

She smiled softly at the memory, finding her gaze drifting off through the flickering of the flames. She could hear the beautiful melody of her father's violin as he played. She could remember when she first lifted her voice in song and the gentle tilt of his head as he encouraged her on.

_The water is wide, I can't cross o'er  
Nor do I have light wings to fly  
Build me a boat that can carry two  
And both shall row... my love and I._

_A ship there is and she sails the sea  
She's loaded deep as deep can be  
But not so deep as the love I'm in  
And I know not how I sink or swim._

_I leaned my back up against an oak  
Thinking he was a trusty tree  
But first he bended, and then he broke  
And thus did my false love to me._

She remembered the songs entirety. Christine found her lips moving in silence as the song rang in her mind. But as it persisted, she could no longer stay silent and found herself caught up in the pleasant memory. She raised her voice in song, not caring that she was in a strange place, far from any friends and much farther from the family she used to have. Nothing mattered anymore. Only this moment and this song.

_I put my hand into a bush  
The sweetest flower there to find  
I pricked my finger to the bone  
And left the sweetest flower alone._

_Oh, love is handsome and love is fine  
It's like a gem when first it's new  
But love grows old and waxes cold  
And fades away like the morning dew._

As the last line slipped from her lips, she found herself overcome with emotion and unable to end on a clear note. Her voice grew hoarse and a sob broke from her mouth. She raised her hands to cover her face. But as she began to weep silently, she did not notice the movement in the shadows. She had failed to look around the room. But she was so distraught for the moment, and nothing would have roused her from the emotion, that the shadow paused, lingering in the doorway before slipping out unnoticed.

She slowly began to regain her composure and brushed away the tears from her face. The warmth of the fire was soothing on her tear-stained face. It almost took the place of a gentle hand. Christine sunk down on her knees before the fire, pressing her hands together in a silent prayer, when suddenly a voice sounded in the room.

"_Why do you cry, my child?"_

"Whose there?" she replied, glancing about the room but finding no one. Still the voice sounded as though it were spoken right near her ear.

"_You asked for an angel, did you not?"_

The voice was so soft and gentle, that she felt as though she would weep for joy at the sound. Surely angels would not visit mere mortals such as her! She never really expected one to come. But now that she heard the disembodied voice, and faintly remembered hearing it before, she _knew_ that this was no normal human voice. It must truly be heaven-sent.

She nodded gently, feeling at ease with the strange voice and unusually candid. "My father told me an angel would watch over me. Yes. . .I prayed for one. But I did not expect. . ."

"_Why is your voice filled with sorrow? There is no joy in what you sing. No emotion then utter despair. Why?" _asked the voice.

"I miss him terribly. He is dead, and I have no one now. Even Madame Giry is gone. I have no home. They. . .they cast me out of the town," she cried out in frustration. "I did not want to believe their horrid stories. But I was so scared. . .I thought I would die." She paused for a moment, thinking back to the night when she had been left alone in the woods. _The voice._

She glanced up quickly, as though to meet a face that was not there, and asked, "Was it you? Did you come to me at the tree and carry me away?"

There was a long pause when the voice did not answer and she began to worry that the angel was gone. But soon his beautiful, deep voice sounded again.

"_Yes, child. Now clear your mind of troubles and rest your weary head."_

The voice rose in song to such glorious heights that Christine's heart soared. But after it reached its heavenly crescendo, it softened to a lullaby, and she found her limbs grow tired. She lay down upon the soft rug near the fire and rested her head upon her arms. The voice carried her into sleep. When she lay silent, bathed in the soft glow of the fire, the shadow dared to step closer and nearly lifted a finger to the smooth skin of the young woman's cheek. But it suddenly recoiled, as though such contact was forbidden, and sunk back into the shadows.

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**Q & A**

**VeroniqueClaire – Yes, I've written fanfic for other shows, most of it being scifi (closet geek here L) and my own original stories. I finally felt the drive to put out my own POTO story. The lurking wasn't enough. **

**Chantal – Sorry to disappoint with not incorporating the full-facial deformity. I appreciate Leroux's version and highly respect Kay's work. I find the half-face deformity an interesting contradiction in itself - angel/demon, beauty/horror. The one question I have with the general full facial deformity described in the books is how lacking a nose can produce a pleasing voice. The nose is very involved with the end product of the voice. That aspect of the deformity just doesn't work for me. L Another note – I am currently in a 12 step program to get over Gerard Butler, so this is my way of incorporating some of him into my work to get it out of my system. Kidding. :) **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Well, another chapter. I felt guilty about leaving it for tomorrow. I hope you enjoy. I want to keep the Phantom's presence mysterious for a while, gradually drawing him out into an actual person rather then keeping him an elusive angel like Christine believes him to be. Eventually, I haven't decided when yet, I want to switch briefly to Erik's POV to get his take on the story without revealing too much. I prefer keeping things mysterious because it adds to the emotion and sensuality of the story. Of course, I want Christine to begin to suspect that her angel is not exactly who she thinks him to be. Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 5**

She slept upon a chaise with a thin woven blanket stretched over her. The fire had died down now, and only the embers glowed faintly upon the grate. The room was no longer dark. Several candles had been placed about it, resting in elaborate candelabras and illuminating the room in a pleasant glow. Christine opened her eyes, shifting her legs slowly beneath the blanket, and glanced around the comfortable room. She brushed a hand across her face and tried to wipe away the last remnants of sleep.

She could now see that the room she had fallen asleep in was much larger then she had thought. There were a few couches spread about the room and other furniture just has exquisite as that in her room. Paintings adorned the walls. Paintings of lush landscapes and foreign architecture were most predominant. The walls were painted a dark burgundy to accompany the darker woodwork of the furniture and molding. Carpets adorned the wooden floor. The one she had slept on near the fire was a thick cream colored carpet. The others found near other pieces of furniture were dark with exotic oriental designs.

One design the room was missing was a window. No wonder it had been so dark earlier, despite the fact that daylight had spilled into her own room.

Christine brushed her hand across her cheek again, as though the action earlier had reminded her of something. She sat up on the chaise, an odd sense of déjà vu flooding her mind. Fingertips running across her skin. She shuddered slightly before lifting the blanket off and rising from the place where she had slept. _How did I get here? I remember falling asleep on the floor. The angel had sung to me. _She glanced at the candles and her brow creased slightly. _Who lit these candles? No angel did all of this. Surely, there are other people here_, she thought.

She drifted from the room, drawn by the brighter light beyond. The hall was lit with sunlight. Several windows that ran along its length, in either direction, were uncovered. Heavy drapes had been cast aside. She glided down the hall, in the opposite direction from her room. She found a small kitchen and began to look in the cupboards for something to eat before she spotted the dining room. A small platter of food had been placed there. Bread, cheese, fruit, and wine had been lain out. Christine ate hungrily, not realizing how famished she had been. When her stomach was full and she had leaned back in the cushioned chair at the large wooden table, she was reminded again of the oddity of the situation. _Where did this food come from? _

Finally filled with enough energy to seek out her benefactor, Christine left the dining room and began to search the large house. Its halls seemed large and gothic. A house more beautiful then she could have imagined. But there was something also oppressive about the great halls, heavily draped windows, and flickering candlelight. Something that struck fear into her heart and she did not know why. Perhaps it was the fear of being alone in such a grand place. But still, that notion did not solve the problem. She felt restless, as though she had been waiting long for something that had never come.

The world she had left behind was becoming a distant memory. She no longer paid any thought to the town that she was forced to leave. But occasionally, her thoughts would drift back to Madame Giry and her young daughter Meg. They were the only relics of her life that carried any meaning. Her father was gone.

It had only been a handful of years since his passing, but the memory still awoke a strong sorrow in her heart that it was difficult to hide. She brought a hand to her mouth, fighting back the sobs that always lay so close. Her other hand reached out, as she walked down one of the many hallways, and brushed back a curtain from one of the windows. Sunlight briefly hit her features and the starkness of it, the white searing bite of it, caused her to recoil.

Christine stopped briefly at the large window to glance outside. The forest lay just a short distance away. The trees had already begun to turn color here. Just the faintest of turnings, but autumn was undoubtedly coming. Between the house and the woods lay a small clearing and what appeared to be a coarse drive running alongside the house and stretching past her field of vision. No carriage or horses could be seen.

She stepped back from the window, allowing the heavy drape to fall back into place and remove the sun from the hall. She was restless.

It was upon this occasion that she found the library. The hidden room, off in an obscure area of the house much of which had yet to be explored, was a cozy office of sorts. Several bookshelves lined the walls. Christine hesitantly entered the room, skirting around the wooden desk that was positioned in the center of the room, and found a treasure at the back.

A larger library gave way to a smaller room. A large bay window lay straight across, allowing bright, cheery sunlight to shine through, with an inviting couch placed in the small alcove. She skimmed the bookshelves and tried to find something to pass the time. Her finger finally stopped on a book of fairy tales and a small smile formed on her face. She lifted the volume from the shelf and made her way back to the smaller room, before settling on the small couch.

She began to lose herself in the book of stories and was not aware of the passing of time. Soon, the light began to fade through the large windows and she began to look around for a candle or oil-lamp.

That was when it started.

As she bent over the desk in the library to find what she was looking for, a figure moved past the door in the hall. She spotted it as soon as she had risen. _Strange that they do not stop_, she thought. Christine rushed to the door in an attempt to catch up to the passerby.

"Hello?" she called out, her voice sounded rather timid.

After no response, she tried again and again. But no one answered. Fear began to settle in her mind and she left the safe confines of the library to seek out whoever had passed this way.

"Please, is someone there?" she cried out.

She felt the shadows start to settle in the darkened hallways as daylight fled the sky and was replaced by night. Lifting her gown slightly, Christine rushed down the hall. Many of the candles that had been lit earlier were now extinguished and some still warm to the touch, with spires of smoke rising from the wicks. She glanced about worriedly, her brown eyes wide with fear and lips parted in wordless question. But then something came over her and pushed back the fear. Her breathing calmed.

Remembering words that her father once spoke, she closed her eyes and found a sort of peace. She used to sing to herself after her father died. When no one else was listening and no one else was near, she would sing as quietly as should could. It was the only connection left that she had with him. Perhaps he could hear her, even from heaven above. Even now, as a young woman, she found that singing was the only way she could alleviate the fear of being alone in this strange place. Without him. A melody suddenly found its way into her words, and she felt her voice move into song.

"_Father once spoke of an angel, _

_I used to dream he'd appear _

_Now as I sing I can sense him, _

_And I know he's here._

_Here in this room he calls me softly,  
Somewhere inside...hiding."_

Her voice faltered with the last word. The fear advanced again. She was still alone in the hall. Was she?

She continued down the hall, drawn by the light at the end. She passed by the kitchen and noticed no one there. Nearing the great hall with the fireplace, she noticed that there was no fire this evening. The room was dark. She continued on in trepidation, clutching the folds of her skirt tightly with white knuckles betraying her unease. She passed the door to the room she had first awoken in. Christine began to fear what was waiting for her at the end of the hall. The light was becoming brighter as she approached. She could feel her legs quaking.

When at last she neared the room, its door wide open with light spilling out onto the wood floor like an open invitation, she brought a hand up to the doorframe in hesitation. She closed her eyes and silently prayed that whatever lay beyond would not harm her. When she finally summoned the courage to continue, Christine stepped across the threshold and was stunned by the room she had entered. Glancing around in surprise, she found a room, smaller then the great room down the hall, but furnished more differently. With a couch, a mirror upon the wall, similar to the one in her room, and a great organ dominating the wall directly across from her, the room was undoubtedly a private music room. Several candelabras were scattered about the room giving it a bright, but comfortable illumination.

Christine approached the organ, drawing her slender fingers gingerly across the keys. She noticed sheet music scattered about with most of it stacked neatly on the organ. It reminded her very much of her father's disarray at times. A gentle smile spread across her face.

Suddenly, she felt a breeze on the back of her neck. Christine turned her head slightly, her long dark curls trailing behind her back, and glanced about the room. No one was there. But the candles were flickering in agreement with her suspicions.

"Hello?" she asked softly. "Is anyone there?"

Silence.

"Please answer. I wish to know whose house it is that I am now living in. Please!" Her plea seemed to go unanswered.

Again the candles flickered as a sudden gush of wind blew through the room. Christine crossed her arms before her, fighting off the chill that had spread throughout her body. She felt a presence in the room and she spun about wildly but to no avail. The candles seemed to dim. Or perhaps it was the light of oil lamps that had gone unnoticed in the room.

"_Child, why do you wish to know these things?"_

She glanced upward as though she might spot the winged messenger. But finding nothing, she drew her gaze back down.

"Angel, why do you not show yourself?"

"_You do not need to see me."_

"But I do! I am lonely and wish to see the angel that my father sent me," she cried out.

There was a pause before the voice sounded again. _"You are not alone, Christine. I am watching over you."_

The sound of her name on the angel's lips was beyond description. Tears sprang to her eyes but she fought them back. There had to be someone else in the house. She knew it.

"Who else lives here, angel?" she asked.

"_Why do you ask?"_

"I have seen someone walking the hall. There was food upon the table for me. Someone has cared for me. I know it!" she argued.

"_Right now, nothing else matters. I have heard your voice. The voice that your father nurtured when you were young. I have found it worthy of my tutelage."_

Christine stood speechless for a moment. A tutor? No one had cared to foster her singing besides her father. She was hesitant for a moment. Her singing was too painful for her. At least, when it was to be shared with another. She did not want to sing for anyone but her father.

"I cannot sing," she replied quietly, looking down upon the floor.

"_I have heard you sing. Your voice is more beautiful then any other's, but it lacks heart and soul. There is nothing but pain in your voice. I can teach you."_

If this was the angel her father had sent, she had an obligation to honor his presence and use her voice.

"Alright," she responded in the barest of whispers.

The lights flickered briefly about the room. Christine stood alone at its center.

"Angel, please, I must know who lives here. Forgive me for asking for too much, but I need someone to talk to. Someone who I can see. Someone real. Please," she cried, a tear slipping from her eye.

There was no response. But suddenly the lights went out in the music room. Christine's eyes were still closed as the room dimmed, but she could feel a slight breeze on her skin. She felt a hand touch her face, rather a gloved hand, and wipe the tear from her cheek. But as quickly as it had been there, the presence was gone.

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**Lady Extremely English Voldemort - Thank you for the vote of confidence!**

**Passed Over – One of my personal fav Gerry movies (I haven't seen many) is Dracula 2000. Very delectable. **


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Well, another chapter. I didn't think I would have it in me tonight, but after watching Alias, I was in 'mission mode'. . .must get another chapter done! Unfortunately, Agent Vaughn wasn't here to give me backup. Just kidding. Anyways, I was a little unsure about how this story was going to play out, but everything seems to be coming together. Sometimes throwing a wrench into the story makes for a more interesting read (you'll see what I mean). **

**Yes, this story is not exactly like the movie/musical. But call it loosely based. There are elements from each of them that I have thrown in. I do not want to turn this into a full blown musical with 'The Hills are Alive' streaming in the background. But if I have used specific lyrics (which by the way are not my own thus far), they were used for good reason – they fit the particular emotion or moment. **

**After reading the reviews, I have decided to move at a happy medium speed. Not too slow, not too fast. Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 6**

Christine tossed in her bed, trying desperately to fight off the thoughts that were dominating her mind, and wanted so badly to fall asleep. But she could still feel the cool touch of her angel upon her cheek. His mark still burned like an invisible brand upon her skin. Her fingers traced the gentle curve of her cheek. She could feel where the tear had trailed down her cheek. Where his touch had carried it from her.

She did not know why the action had such a powerful effect on her. Her heart raced even now. It was as though she had caught a glimpse of heaven itself, for the briefest of moments, and was now barred from the sight of it forever. Her heart ached for that vision. Limbs that had once been sluggish and tired were now thrashing about in desperation.

The first lesson commenced later that week. After a few days of utter loneliness, Christine found that she craved the angel's attention more then anything else. When she waited anxiously in the music room as he had directed, she found her hands could not be stilled. They wrung at the folds of her gown. But at the first flicker of candlelight, Christine's head shot up in expectation. Her large, expressive eyes flew open and a smile graced her generous lips. She could not remember feeling such excitement before. Only, perhaps, when she had been a very young child and her father had presented her with a gift.

"Angel!" she called out, rising abruptly from her seat on the small couch.

"_Are you ready to begin your lesson?"_ his lovely voice echoed.

"Yes, I am," she responded.

"_Stand straight, look ahead, and do not move from that spot."_

Christine complied and remained as still as she could. She could feel a light breeze in the room and was about to turn her head when she heard the angel's commanding voice again.

"_Do not turn your head!"_ he boomed. _"I will not tutor you if you do not follow these simple commands."_

"I'm sorry, angel," she responded, mentally berating herself for inciting the correction.

"_Now, you will learn a simple piece. We will work on your range and your breathing. Once you have mastered the basic skills, we will move ahead to more complex pieces."_

"Angel," her voice sounded softly, as though fearing to anger the angel. "Why are you teaching me? What good will it do? I have no one to sing for anymore," her voice trailed off sadly.

There was a pause and then the angel responded, in a tone more gentle then before. _"You have been blessed with a gift. You must develop this gift. It was not given to you to squander,"_ he stopped for a moment, as though pausing to think on his words. _"You may not have an audience now, but I assure you, your voice is pleasing to my ears."_

Christine smiled in gratitude. She would never have thought that an angel would be appreciative of her voice. It was an honor to hear these words from him.

They continued their lessons each day for the next few months. Each day, Christine arose in anticipation of the coming day. Her voice had far exceeded her own expectations. She found it reaching new heights under the strict tutelage of her angel of music. But as the weeks drew on, and she never saw or heard anyone else in the house, she began to grow immensely lonesome. She would sit for hours in the small room adjacent the library and immerse herself in the books.

When the confines of the house became too much, she would venture outside to the small garden that lay behind the house. Autumn was drawing to a close. Most of the leaves had fallen from the trees and carpeted the ground in a blanket of gold. Christine's gaze drifted back to the house. It was drawn across the expanse of the great house, with its two stories and many windows. Many rooms still remained unexplored. But at her angel's command, she remained only in those rooms that had been opened to her. Still, her curiosity was growing with each passing day. With no one besides the angel to talk to, occurring only during the lessons, she began to grow restless.

But whenever she pleaded with her angel for company, for someone real to talk to, she was gently refused. She had inquired about the owner of the house. But an explanation was not provided. She found herself only left in silence. Christine began to grow frustrated.

One day, on a particularly lovely late autumn day, a horse appeared on the small road that wound through the forest. Christine heard the sound of hooves upon gravel and rushed outside to catch a glimpse of the visitor. There had never been a visitor in her months of exile in the house. She was starving for human interaction.

She waited with caution at the front gate, peering carefully along the road that lay before the great house.

"Hello!" a male voice called.

Christine inclined her head further to see the man who approached. He looked to be a young man. Perhaps twenty five years old. His long hair was pulled back at the base of his neck and he wore a hat. By the look of his clothes, the young man appeared to be wealthy. A rifle was slung behind one shoulder, over his heavy cloak. The horse that he rode, a beautiful white stallion, appeared to be injured. One leg was bloodied and the creature was limping slightly as rider and horse approached.

"Hello, mademoiselle," he said, stopping before the slender, shy girl that stood near the gate.

He tipped his hat before slowly dismounting. As he straightened out before her, Christine studied the young man with inquisitive eyes. Now that was able to study his face, she found the young man quite handsome. Never had she seen such a man in the town. No noblemen would even think of living in such a place.

"My name is Vicomte Raoul de Chagny," he bowed slightly before her.

Not really knowing how to respond, she remembered what her father had taught her as a child, and offered a simple curtsey. "I am Christine Daae," she replied.

"Do you live in this house?" he inquired.

Christine's gaze fell upon the looming structure and she nodded. "Yes."

"I have been riding nearly all day, lost in these woods, when I happened upon this road. I was hunting and my horse was injured. May I rest here? I do not wish to impose."

Christine glanced up at the house with fearful eyes. Would her angel permit this? He had not allowed her any contact with outsiders before. But she could not refuse the kind face of the gentlemen that stood before her. She was tired of being alone. What harm would it do to allow the man to rest and attend his horse for a short time?

"There is a small stable beyond the house. You can keep your horse there. I will go and fetch some food if you like," she offered, smiling kindly at the man.

"Thank you, that would be very appreciated," he answered, smiling back.

They sat in the small parlor that lay near the door of the house. Christine had lit a small fire in the fireplace and offered the young man tea and a small plate of food from what she had found in the kitchen. The cupboards were stocked with food and the cellar was full of fruits, vegetables and a considerable amount of wine.

She watched as he ate, the young man bending politely over the small table she had placed before him. His manners were unlike the rough tendencies of the villagers. He ate slowly, in an orderly manner, and frequently glanced up at the expectant face of his hostess.

"Do you live here alone?" he inquired after the silence that had permeated his meal.

She hesitated for a moment before replying. "I have lived here under the protection of a benefactor, "she replied.

"So you are not the lady of this house?"

"No," she blushed, "I am a guest."

"And where is your benefactor now?" he asked, his curiosity obviously piqued.

"Away," she replied curtly.

He raised an eyebrow. "How odd!"

She offered him a smile and a gentle shrug of her shoulders.

"Who is the master of this house? I am curious to meet him," Raoul asked, glancing around the room.

"He. . .I. . .do not know his name," she replied.

"You do not know his name? How could that be?" the young man asked in surprise.

"I came to live here several months ago. I have no family, and as such, I took whatever accommodations had been offered to me. I have been provided a food and shelter. I could not ask more."

The questions were beginning to make her uncomfortable. Christine was afraid of revealing too much to the man. As much as she craved conversation with him, she did not want to be drawn away from the house, from her angel, on a young man's suspicions. There had been too many goodbyes in her life. She had to say goodbye to her father. When the lottery had been announced, it was Madame Giry and Meg. She did not want to lose the last comforting presence in her life. Her angel.

"Excuse me, Vicomte," Christine began.

"Oh please, call me Raoul. I hate hearing that title all the time," he said, smiling briefly.

"Raoul. I can find you a room for the night, if you wish," Christine offered, rising from her seat.

Raoul immediately rose up, his eyes never leaving the younger woman's. He had never seen such a girl before. Her hair was long and dark, curled in perfect ringlets. Her figure was slender and graceful, but there was something wanting in her posture, as though she often found herself in the presence of greater people, or perhaps people she feared. Eyes of warm brown were wide and expressive. There was genuine warmth in them. Not the stuffy sort of façade that he had seen so often.

He watched as she carefully cleared the plate away and disappeared into the kitchen for a moment before returning and gesturing down one of the halls.

"There is a room down here," she said.

Raoul followed behind the young woman, glancing around the halls as they passed by several rooms. _How strange_, he thought. _The architecture is so grand. I would never have expected to find such a house this deep in the woods. It is a house meant for the city or a large estate._ _I wonder who owns this house_.

Christine glanced back at him as she stopped in front of an open doorway. She smiled faintly for a moment before walking into the room and pulling open the heavy drapes of the windows. The room was immediately bathed in light and revealed a large canopy bed and other necessary amenities.

"You may stay here. If you'd like, you can sit in the parlor this evening. There is a library down the hall and I can bring whatever you'd prefer to read," she explained.

"That is most hospitable of you, Christine," he bowed humbly, flashing Christine a smile, before sweeping for her hand.

He caught the slender hand in his and placed a chaste kiss upon the smooth skin of her knuckles. As he did so, he glanced up and watched as her eyes wavered for a moment on his. Uncertainty filled her eyes, as though his action had broken some strange law. But quickly the emotion fled her eyes and was replaced by the hint of a blush upon her lovely face.

"Forgive me, if I have offended you," Raoul said.

"No, no," she blurted out, "you have not."

They stood in an awkward silence before Christine broke it.

"How is your horse?" she inquired.

"I have managed to bandage it up. I will have to watch it though. The swelling might be a problem," he responded.

She nodded softly, her mind elsewhere. "Very good. I. . .I think I might retire for the evening. It is. . ."

"Will you stay in the parlor with me?" he interrupted, stopping her retreat from the door.

She glanced up with those wavering eyes. "Alright," she answered. "It has been very quiet here. I welcome the company," she said softly.

"Very good!" the young Vicomte responded.

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Later that evening, Christine returned to her room, carrying a single candle to light her path. She quietly undressed behind the ornate dressing screen that lay in the corner of the room and slipped on a delicate white lace nightgown. Tying her robe over the gown, she walked out from behind the screen and was preparing for bed when a voice that had remained silent all day suddenly filled her senses. 

"_Why have you let a stranger into this household?" _the voice of her angel boomed.

Christine's eyes filled with fear as she glanced around like a frightened child receiving her punishment. "Forgive me, angel. But his horse was injured and he needed a place to stay. I did not think it would do any harm by allowing him to stay."

"_You did not think!"_

Hurt filled her eyes. She had never heard the angel so angry before.

"Please, forgive me!"

There was silence for a while. Christine stood rigid in the center of the room, awaiting his response.

"_Send him away in the morning_," the voice responded, a little calmer this time.

A tear trailed down her cheek and reached up slowly to brush it away.

"_Why are you crying?"_ the voice asked.

"I just wanted. . .I wanted someone to talk to," she nearly sobbed.

"_I will always be here, Christine,"_ he responded, his golden voice filling her soul.

"I know that, angel," she replied. "But I need someone. . .real."

With that, she scurried off to bed, not wanting to hear her angel's response. Damned if she was, she did not care. How could a human being go so long without another? She cried herself to sleep, staining the pillow with her tears.

She did not know what her decisions today would mean. She was not aware of what she had set in motion. But as she slept fitfully, a presence lingered behind her mirror. Gleaming eyes watched over her.

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**Emmy6** – Have no fear about the tension. I am the queen of drawing out the tension until it strings apart like toffee. Kidding. But I too hate excessive fluff. I like my Erik to have a darker side. Not too dark, mind you. I can tell you don't think too highly of the movie. I really enjoyed it. I do envision my Christine as being played by Emmy Rossum, and also my Erik to be played by the heavenly Gerard Butler. But let's just say I've replaced his voice to fit with the books – higher quality. 

As for ages, I hate it when other authors make Erik younger (such as 25). It just doesn't work. He's always been significantly older. I guess being around that age myself, I couldn't take him seriously. So, like the movie, I'm aiming for mid to late 30's. 50, as in the books, is getting to be a little geriatric for me in this story.

**Jtbwriter** – Glad that Christine worked out OK. I was aiming for a sympathetic character. In other words, she's got issues too. I wanted to show that she's not just a flighty young woman who's had everything handed to her on a platter. And the fact that she is starving for attention is one of the reasons why Raoul's entrance is almost justified. Perhaps it will give the angel a little kick in the pants too. Wink wink.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N- I have to admit, I got a little stuck trying to deal with Raoul's role in the story. I still haven't worked out anything concrete yet. Suggestions are welcome.**

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**Chapter 7**

Someone real.

The plea from his young protégé was enough to quell the anger that had risen inside. He had watched the boy leave _his_ parlor and retire to the room that Christine had offered him. He had felt his hand reach for the Punjab lasso at his side. But when he saw _her_ walking down the hall, having extinguished the last of the candles in the parlor, he felt his desire to kill quickly leave him. He watched as she passed by him, never knowing he was lurking in the shadows of a doorway. In the moonlight, which shone through the tall windows, her pale dress had an unearthly glow. Long, brown curls cascaded down her back. She walked with all of the grace of an angel and carried a candle before her to light her way. Never had he seen anything so beautiful.

Her eyes drifted down for a moment and the spell was broken. He could see a familiar sadness fill her lovely eyes. How he hated to see that expression on her painfully beautiful face! He watched as she stopped at her door, fumbling with the handle before slipping in silently and shutting it behind her.

Glancing down the hall, he remembered the presence of the boy. Something had to be done. He would not allow that boy to remain in his house any longer. No one was to distract Christine from her lessons. He had worked too long to let a fool such as the Vicomte de Chagny ruin all he had struggled for.

He would not allow her to drift away.

The first time he had heard her heavenly voice, a handful of years ago, he thought some sort of strange spell had overcome him. But as he neared the source of the sound, he found the woods growing thin. He pulled back slightly, careful to conceal himself in the shadows, and watched through the gaps in the foliage. A young girl had bent over a gravestone, laying a small bouquet at its base. She had sunk to her knees, the beautiful voice having ceased its heavenly song, and began to pray. He watched her closely. Watched her delicate hands fold in prayer. Watched the flutter of her eyelashes upon her cheek. Watched the movement of her lips in silent prayer.

Immediately, he felt sympathy for this young girl. As she rose to her feet, she turned, and he was startled by her beauty. He felt his breath catch in his throat. The sadness he had heard in her voice now lingered in the depths of her eyes. Her lips began to tremble and she lifted a hand to her mouth to stifle the sobs.

It was in that moment that he knew that he must be the one to watch over her. Alone in the world, like himself, he felt a strange affinity for her. An affinity he had never had with anyone before.

Now, he watched from the shadows, concealed behind the large mirror in her room. He watched her protest. He saw the same sadness flood her delicate features when he told her to send the boy away.

_I need someone. . .real_. The plaintive cry echoed in his mind. Gone were the thoughts of that ridiculous young man invading his property. The anger that had been building was dashed to pieces as he watched her retreat to the large bed and sink into the blankets. Her hand gripped the sheets as she pressed her face into the pillows. Her cry was muffled, but with his acute hearing, he could hear every sob, every sorrowful groan.

As she drifted off to sleep, her fit of crying having exhausted itself, he slipped from the mirror and approached her bed. He had never allowed himself this close to her, while she slept in her room, since bringing her to the house. But now, he could not resist. He looked down upon her tear sodden face, resting silently against the thick pillows, and marveled at the beauty presented before him. He found his hand rising upon its own volition. The long, slender, masculine fingers of his hand traced a small path upon her jaw. He watched in silence as her expression seemed to soften for a moment.

His eyes drifted along her face, drinking in every detail. Her long lashes fluttered softly against her cheek in dream. Her soft, delicate lips were parted as she slept. Finally tearing his eyes from the sight of her, he pulled his gloved hand away in guilt and retreated to the mirror.

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"Will he ride today?" she asked, patting the white horse as she glanced up at Raoul.

The young man stopped his careful grooming. "The leg looks much improved. I believe so."

"Good," Christine responded, though no emotion ran into the word.

"I do not wish to trouble you anymore. Your hospitality has been most welcome. Please convey my gratitude to your benefactor when he returns," Raoul bowed humbly.

"I will," she smiled.

He looked ready to leave when Christine suddenly called out to him. "Raoul?"

"Yes?" he asked, turning from his horse.

"Where do you live?" she asked curiously.

He smiled gently, leaning against a wooden support in the small stable. "Just to the north of this area, outside of these woods, my brother has an estate." Raoul watched her closely, noting the hesitation. "Perhaps you can come to visit us."

Her eyes seemed to light up, but were quickly subdued by something else altogether. "That is a lovely offer," she said softly, her eyes wandering from the confines of the stable.

"Think about it," Raoul said gently, clasping her hand abruptly and squeezing it with affection. "You may send a letter to none other then the Vicomte de Chagny," he added with sarcasm.

Christine offered a rare smile. There was warmth in her eyes. A warmth that was never quite there. She watched as he gathered the rest of his gear together before mounting the striking horse. As he led his horse outside, Christine walked beside them and stopped at the gate. Raoul tipped his hat at her and smiled when she waved back. Soon, horse and rider had disappeared with the turn of the road.

Christine was alone. She brushed her hands along the length of her skirt, mouth tightening into a straight line, and turned slowly to walk back to the house. Once inside, she closed the heavy wooden door behind her and leaned her body against it in quiet reflection. Her eyes drifted up to the darkness of the house. The shadows seemed more emphasized now. The halls were dark and foreboding. She suddenly felt suffocated. Her breaths grew shallow and she leaned into the door even more, waiting to catch her breath.

A single candle lay on a small table just past the door. She had not placed it there. The glow of the tiny flame seemed to taunt her. It was the only light in the darkened mansion. The only source of warmth. She grew bitter, feeling her hands ball up into fists at her sides. Someone had finally broken the silence that she had been forced to endure for months, and now she had been forced to send him away. She had been left with nothing.

Crying out in pain, she lashed out at the candle, knocking it from the table with an angered fist, and watched as it clattered to the ground. The flame was snuffed out and with it, all hope that she would ever be happy again.

Christine drifted away from the foyer and continued down the hall. She found the large drawing room housing the impressive fireplace and leaned against the doorframe for a moment. Her heart raced. The emotion was rising in a surge that she could not control. The rage was still there, but it was quickly being replaced by sorrow. She felt the floor rise up beneath her as her legs buckled. Her hands reached out, palms grazing the floor in an attempt to halt her fall. But her body collided with the wooden floor. She felt herself falling back, her head rolling to one side, but suddenly its descent was halted.

Something held her head up. A hand? No, now it had been replaced with the crook of an arm. Another arm snaked beneath her knees. She was angry. _Can I not even have her anguish? Must someone take that away too?_ Her head tilted up to catch a glimpse of the one who had denied her that simple yet powerful emotion. All she could see above was the gleam of two eyes, as bright as the stars of heaven themselves, and a mask obscuring the left side of a face. But the face was so darkened by the shadows, she could not discern its features.

"Why? Why!" she sobbed, her voice weary. "I was. . .I was. . .so tired of being alone. Why did I have to send him away?"

She heard a heavy sigh above her. A sigh so filled with sadness, it rivaled if not exceeded hers.

"First papa, then my dear friends," she cried, clutching at the folds of clothing that lay near her cheek. Her head tilted back again as though she meant to look through the ceiling and straight into heaven. Her eyes flashed. "Papa, I am sorry for whatever I did to anger you! I am scared of the angel you promised me. He frightens me!"

Her cries grew hysterical and she felt the arms tighten around her, pulling her closer to the warm body that held her. "Why is he so cruel?" she murmured, her cries suddenly stifled by the fatigue that permeated her slender frame.

As she fell asleep in her fallen angel's arms, he reached a hand across her face and tenderly lifted a lock of hair from her cheek. He allowed himself this moment. His thumb brushed the moisture from her cheek. It lingered on the unimaginably soft skin. He could feel her warm breath upon his wrist and looked down at her parted lips for what seemed an eternity. Finally, he swept her up in his arms, cradling the sleeping young woman carefully, and walked slowly to her room.

* * *

_She found herself in the forest again. The same heavy ropes wrapped about her slender body. She struggled to free herself, her limbs thrashing frantically, but to no avail. Her head hung forward and the long heavy mane of hair, now wet, clung to her pale face. _

"_Help me!" she cried out in a hoarse voice. _

_She saw the figure again, removing itself from the shadows as it parted the trees and stepped into the small clearing. Christine lifted her head and looked up at the man with a pained expression on her face._

"_Why do you haunt me like this?" she wept._

_The figure was silent, as always, and loomed over her like an avenging angel. _

"_If you want my life, take it," she said, closing her eyes and awaiting whatever fate had in store._

_But no death blow came. There was still only the sound of rain falling. Darkness. She opened her eyes again and tried to catch a glimpse of her tormenter. Tired of not being allowed to see the one who haunted her dreams, she lunged forward with all of her strength. The bonds that had held her arms were cut. She reached out her hands and pulled back the hood that hung over his face. Now she could see the haunting white mask that filled her with such terror. His eyes shone with such extraordinary light. Burning. Their ferocity filled her with such fear that she fell back from the figure. _

"_Who are you?" she gasped._

"_Some have named me the phantom. Others have given me the title of angel." The voice, so warm and caressing, was enough to reveal who her attacker was. _

"_Angel!" she cried out. "It cannot be! There is only darkness about you! Surely a true angel of heaven would be surrounded by the grace of God."_

_A sigh issued from the figure. _

"_You are no angel. You are a man! You have deceived me!" she cried out, clutching a hand to her mouth._

"_Christine," the voice said. Her name upon his lips was so beautiful. _

_Could a man possibly have a voice like that? At that one word, she felt her suspicion slipping away. She wanted to wrap herself in that wonderful voice. It elicited feelings within her she could not describe. But her will was stronger. She forced herself to think with reason._

"_Leave me!" she said, her tone lowering dangerously._

"_Christine," the voice continued, as gently as before._

"_You lied to me!" she cried, pulling her knees up to her face and hiding her eyes in her wet gown. _

_She felt a hand on her shoulder. The fingers curled into her flesh. A scream rose from her throat._

_

* * *

_

She woke up, thrashing beneath the sheets in her bed, and cried out. Her skin was damp with sweat. She remembered everything.

Christine swung her legs over the side of the bed. She rose and quickly dressed herself. Rushing into the kitchen, she gathered a small satchel of food.

_I have to leave. I cannot live in this house any longer. I cannot live with a false angel. I do not know this man. What if he tries to hurt me? I have angered him before._ Her thoughts were chaotic as she packed.

Even as she ran beyond the confines of the house, her legs propelling her body into the woods, all explanation for leaving was justified. What reason had she to stay? She once believed that her father had sent an angel to watch over her – to nurture her musical talent. But that belief had been shattered by his touch. There was nothing left for her. No one with good intentions. No one who genuinely cared for her well-being. _I don't want to be a prisoner in his house_, she thought.

Tears slipped from her eyes as she ran. She did not know why she cried. Christine brushed a hand across her face. _He tricked me!_ But she kept remembering his voice. That voice! Every time she heard it, she felt as though a part of her had died in ecstasy. Sometimes, when it was conveyed low and chilling, it filled her with dread. But she remembered the sweet heights that it could reach. She could not imagine how she had lived for so long not hearing his voice. _He lied to me!_ A fresh round of tears flowed from her eyes.

But one cannot live on voice alone. _Man cannot live on bread alone._ She needed more. She had wanted the comfort of another human being. Christine wished for so many things. The arms of her father to hold her again. The company of her guardian, Madame Giry, and the friendship of her daughter Meg. But with her past swept away, she had no one to turn to. Everything she had built her life upon in the last few months was a lie. _Where will I go? _She remembered some of the words that her father once spoke while reading his bible. _I lift my eyes up to the mountains. Where does my help come from?_


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N – It's been a rough couple of days for me. Let's just say I've been feeling a lot like Christine lately, well, at least the Christine in this chapter. Anyways, I don't want to go into detail. But I hope you enjoy this chapter. It felt good to write it. . .helped me get a lot of emotions out of my system.**

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**Chapter 8**

She had run for what seemed like hours. The woods had begun to grow strangely dark and thick. Not a glimmer of civilization could be seen. Stopping only briefly to rest, she would not allow herself to think as she leaned heavily against the trees. The chill in the air was palpable. Her breath rose up in a ghostly vapor. Winter was approaching and would soon blanket the world in its cold white shroud.

But she had to keep going. She could not stop. Not knowing where she was going or what she was looking for, Christine had merely run on instinct. She had not followed the old road that led from the house towards the north. _He_ would look there first. Instead, she had plunged deep into the woods and to the best of her knowledge, had traveled to the northwest. With only the waning sun as her guide, Christine had managed to travel miles into the impenetrable woodlands.

She could not always control her thoughts. When she stopped for another rest, as the day had worn on, she found her mind drifting back to the lonely house in the woods. She longed for the heat of a fire in the grand fireplace. She longed to be sleeping warmly in her large bed, surrounded by heavy quilts and large down pillows. But most of all, and she tried desperately to drive the thought away in vain, she wished to hear the voice again. Not of her angel. She knew that now. How foolish she was to have believed that he was an angel. A real angel of heaven.

Her face turned upwards towards the sky. Through the bare branches of the trees, she could see the pale blue sky with wisps of clouds trailing across its expanse. She closed her eyes and found herself in prayer once again.

"Father, you once spoke of an angel. An angel of music. Why has he not come? I have been a fool. I believed in a false angel. Now, I do not know what to do. My course in life is hidden from me. I don't know where to go or what shall become of me. Please, father, intercede for me. Please beg the Holy Spirit to guide me!"

She wiped the tears from her face with the dirtied sleeve of her gown and rose slowly. Taking a small meal from her satchel, she munched silently on the bread and watched the quiet woods in a strange contentment. Birds chirped softly in the distance. But among the sounds most discernable, she could hear the unmistakable sound of water. Her throat had grown parched. Christine put away the remains of her meal and slowly traveled towards the alluring sound of a small brook.

She had walked for several minutes before she found the gentle stream. Its shores were rocky and steep, but she managed to weave her way among the large boulders and knelt by the water's edge. Slipping a hand into the frigid water, she took a long drink before shaking her chilled hands off and slipping them into the folds of her dress for warmth.

Christine climbed up the bank again and found a small path running alongside the stream. It stretched to the north, following the curve of the stream, and disappeared into the trees beyond. Knowing of no other path to take, she followed the small, ancient trail for hours. The sun was drifting to the horizon and the land was beginning to darken. The path ahead was growing dimmer and dimmer.

* * *

_Where did she go?_ The rooms were all empty. There was no trace of her whatsoever in the house. The candle he had left for her at the door was extinguished, lying in a small pool of wax on the floor. He had watched as she had sent the boy away. But as her heavy gaze returned to the house, he shrank back into the dark corners of his domain and gave her space when she returned. He had heard the candle clatter to the floor. Shrinking back further into the shadows, he retreated to the safety of his room. He would not confront her now in this state. It would be best to allow her time alone.

But that had been his gravest mistake. She had taken flight while he sat thinking in the far reaches of his house. Only when the silence grew too long did he suspect something. Slipping from his chambers, he grabbed his cloak and threw it about his shoulders. His Punjab lasso hung at his side. The silence was unbearable. How had he endured it for so long? Spotting his rapier lying in the small anteroom beyond his chambers, he belted it at his side beneath the heavy cloak, and strode down the hall.

He passed her room. Silence. No one in the drawing room. Silence permeated every corner of the house. She had run out and possibly into the woods. His stride turned into an urgent run. Not being accustomed to the brightness of broad daylight, he raised a hand to his eyes as he left the great house. Approaching the stable, he chose a horse quickly from among the three that dwelt there. The most beautiful and striking of all, a sleek, black Arabian stallion, neighed playfully as he approached. The horse had been a gift from a friend. A friend he had not seen for several years. _But the past is the past_, he reminded himself, as he swung his leg over the saddle. He lifted his hood to cover his head.

Nudging the horse gently with his riding boot, horse and rider took off down the road. But as the road left the property, he did not follow its course. Instead, he plunged into the woods and kept riding.

He had made a promise to himself years ago. The young girl, sitting before the cold grave of her father, alone in the world, would need his protection and guidance. The memory fueled his pursuit.

* * *

It was nearly dark when Christine felt despair creeping into her heart. She knew that she could not travel in the dark and she would be forced to stop and endure the night. The ghost stories that she had heard for so many hears began to pervade her mind. She remembered the stories of the violent, bloodthirsty wolves that dwelt in the woods. The memory was accentuated by the distant lonely cry of such a creature. Christine shivered, pulling her light cloak about her slender frame, and huddled beneath a tree for warmth.

But just as she was about to give up her journey for the night, and all hope that she would ever escape the forest, she caught a glimmer of light in the trees. It appeared to be very far off, but the light was unmistakable. Christine rose to her feet and cautiously walked along the path with arms outstretched beside her. The trail appeared to lead towards the source of the light. If she could just follow it, using the light as her point of reference, perhaps she could find shelter for the night.

Her soft brown eyes slowly filled with hope. Christine walked for nearly half an hour, her journey slowed by hidden roots and darkened trees. The path wound carelessly away from the brook and through the trees. The sound of water began to fade, but she continued to look ahead, following the light like a moth drawn to the flame.

Before long, the woods miraculously parted and she found herself in a meadow. In fact, the meadow seemed to spread quite far and in the bright light of the moon, Christine could make out farmlands beyond the meadow. She had reached the edge of the woods. A smile appeared on her face as she beheld a welcome sight before her. A small stone chapel stood near the edge of the meadow. A light shone merrily in one of the rear windows, casting its rays upon her face. The building loomed before her, blotting out the stars in the sky. Behind it, a longer, lower building was attached. Perhaps the living quarters of a priest or the chapel's nuns.

Christine found the door on the other side of the building, facing the meadow and farmlands beyond. She hesitated at the thick wooden doors. Would she be found here? Would anyone know who she was? Finally, she lifted a trembling fist to the door and knocked. A few moments later, a light glowed through the small windows near the door. The door was opened partially and the kindly face of an old nun appeared.

"Yes, my child?" she asked, startled for a moment that a young woman would be found at the door, at this time of night.

"Sister, may I stay here for the night?" she asked.

The older woman studied her for a moment, looking at the disarray of her clothes and the strange sadness in the younger woman's eyes. She finally opened the door wider and stepped back, allowing Christine to enter.

"My child!" she exclaimed. "What has brought you here at this time?"

Christine was ushered into a small room before the chapel and the woman offered her a chair. "I was lost in the woods," she replied, reluctant to answer.

Seeing that the girl was not going to offer an explanation, the older woman smiled gently and fetched a hot mug of tea. The girl sat huddled near the crackling fire of a small fireplace, her gaze lost in the flames. Sitting down before her, the nun clasped her hands together and smiled faintly.

"What is your name? Surely you can tell me that."

Those sorrowful eyes pulled away from the fire and settled on the kindly old woman. So heartbreaking was their intensity that the nun drew back slightly.

"Christine," the girl responded.

"Well, Christine, my name is Sister Catherine. You look very tired. I will prepare a room for you tonight."

Christine watched as the older woman rose and took a candle down the hall. Her gaze fell back to the fire again. She found she could look no where else. The heat of the fire was lost on her though. Her thoughts were miles away. She should be happy now, finally among people whom she could talk to. But the sadness that had driven her away was still there. She felt more lost then she had ever been.

So lost in thought was she, that Christine did not pay much attention when the woman returned and led her to the small, humble room that had been prepared. Her gaze still drifted off when the woman helped her out of the tattered, dirtied gown and placed a modest nightgown over her head. When she slipped into the warm cot, the blankets pulled up to her chin, sleep finally claimed her.

* * *

_Where has she gone?_ He had searched for hours throughout the forest, following whatever trail he could find. His search became more urgent as the day drew on. As the light began to wane, he wondered where she might be. Perhaps huddled in the depths of the forest, her small body shivering in the chill of approaching evening, lost and alone. It pained him so greatly to think of her. He found that his anger from the previous day was gone. Nothing mattered right now.

He longed to hold her in his arms. To feel the warmth of her body pressed up against his chest. _Why did she go?_ The answer was painfully clear to him. He had denied her so much in the last few months. He could not expect her to live the way he had for so many years – lonely and isolated. She was used to the love of other people. She had once had her father to care for her. She needed someone to care for her now. But he had been too stubborn, too unwilling to reveal himself from the shadows, and had nearly driven her to madness.

He remembered the cries from her room at night, when her body shook with sobs, and how they pained him like no other sound. Oh how he longed to break the silence and stumble into her room, gathering her into his arms and brushing the hair back from her moistened face. But he had denied himself that pleasure so many times. The girl was terribly afraid. Those cursed ghost stories had instilled a fear deep within her mind. Even when he had cut her from the tree, he knew that she feared him.

A terrible guilt washed over him. He had ripped the girl from a seemingly normal life to satisfy his loneliness. When he heard of the town council's decision to set up a lottery, he found the timing perfect. He had managed to replace nearly every name in the box with hers.

He was responsible for her being cast out. She had suffered so much sorrow because of him. But he truly believed that she belonged at his side. He would be the one to nurture her talent, to watch over her, to comfort her. _To love her._

He shook his head bitterly.

* * *

She dreamed no dreams that night. Her body and mind were so weak that she slept undisturbed until well into the next afternoon. Sister Catherine was finally the one to greet her. She brushed aside the light curtains in the windows, revealing a splendid sunlight. Christine rubbed her eyes, willing the sleep away. She rose slowly and allowed the old woman to help her bath and dress. Later, she took a little food in the small kitchen.

It was finally mid afternoon, when Christine was alone in the small chapel within the building, that Sister Catherine approached her. The girl sat before the altar on her knees. A single candle had been lit on the table beside. Her hands were clasped together in ardent prayer. Her long, brown curls hung down her back. The simple white dress that she had been given to wear seemed to bring out the young woman's beauty. Sister Catherine had never seen an angel before, but of all of the testimonials she had heard, Christine seemed to fit the description. There was a startling beauty about her. An innocence that seemed to linger in her being. Her eyes, so wide and capable of so much warmth, seemed older then her years. She had seen too much tragedy in her young life.

"Christine," a gentle voice sounded behind her.

She lifted her head from prayer and glanced around as the nun knelt down beside her.

"Forgive me for interrupting your prayer," she apologized, "but I wish speak with you."

"Certainly," Christine responded.

"You know that you have nothing to fear here. Nothing you say will pass these walls. Can you tell me why you came here?"

Christine glanced down for a moment, the hurt coming back to her eyes. "I had to get away from _him_."

The nun looked at her with startled eyes. "Christine, did someone hurt you?"

"No," she whispered faintly, "no."

"Tell me of this man."

"I cannot. I do not even know him. But I. . .I feel as though I do. As though I've always known him."

"Why did you run from him?" the nun inquired.

Christine glanced up at her. "He deceived me. I was so alone and he deceived me." Tears began to well up in her eyes, but Christine brushed them away angrily.

"How did this man deceive you?"

"He. . .he pretended to be an angel," the nun looked at her with a glimmer of curiosity. "My father died when I was young. He told me that an angel would watch over me when he was gone. I was so alone. . .how naïve I was! I wanted to believe it was true."

"Why can't it be true?" the old woman responded, placing a hand on the young woman's shoulder. "Perhaps you do have an angel watching over you."

"Perhaps," Christine said faintly, "but not the one I believed in."

"This man, why did you believe he was an angel?"

"He saved me when I was in trouble," Christine explained, knowing that she had to keep her details to a minimum. "I was so afraid. I did not know who or what he was. But in my delirium, I believed he had been heaven sent. His eyes were so bright, so vivid, I did not think any man could have eyes such as those. And when he sang to me, I thought my heart would burst. There was so much sorrow in his song. I felt that sorrow many times. And so much beauty. He never showed himself to me. He took care of me, I believe, but I never saw him." Christine placed a hand on her brow for a moment. "Why did I believe a lie?"

"Christine, when we are at our lowest, we reach out for anything to soothe the pain. We believe in things that will help us out of our sorrow. This man certainly was not an angel, but it sounds as though he cared for you a great deal."

"I was so lonely. I could never talk to him like a real person. I told him many times that I needed someone, but he would refuse. It seemed to anger him. And when I finally had the chance to talk with someone, someone charming and interesting, he grew angry."

The nun bowed her head for a moment in quiet reflection. Finally, she straightened up and looked Christine directly in the eyes. "There is a lot of pain on his part. I do not know the source of it, but perhaps that is the reason for his anger."

"Why would my path have taken me to him? Why did I believe the lie and follow him?"

"Perhaps you were meant to be there. There is much we do not know about life. But God directs our lives unseen. Perhaps you were there for a reason. If not to cure yourself of this pain you carry, then to bring this man out into the grace of God."

She looked up at the nun, her eyes red with tears. "I feel as though a part of me has died. What if I can't get it back?"

"Christine, do you love this man?" she asked.

The young woman looked up, startled at the question, her eyes wide with fear. "I do not even know him. I. . .I can't. . .I. . ."

"It's alright," the woman responded, enveloping the girl in her embrace as she finished weeping. "You may stay here as long as you like. I will not turn you away."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N – Thank you for the kind words after my last chapter. I was having a difficult week and a little disappointed about how things had turned out in my personal life. But I'm feeling better now.**

**A little note about the version of Ave Maria I included in this chapter. I used Celine Dion's version of the lyrics because I felt it best suited Christine's situation.  
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**Anyways, I think you'll enjoy this chapter. We get to see a little more of our favorite man.  
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**Chapter 9**

It had been nearly a week since Christine came to stay with Sister Catherine at the small chapel. Already, winter had laid a thick blanket of snow across the fields and dusted the trees, pine and birch, with its icy touch. There was not much else to do aside from helping the old nun with her daily cleaning and duties. But most often, when Catherine was away with her work, Christine would find herself alone in the chapel, kneeling before the altar and raising up silent prayers.

On one particular day, as she knelt in that spot, her gaze wandering to the artifacts and symbols of her faith, she found her eyes drawn to the crucifix. A panic rose up inside of her as her hands drifted urgently to her neck, then to her pockets, and finally lowered to the ground in defeat. The crucifix that Madame Giry had given her was gone. She had not thought of it much since that time. The last time she remembered having it was on that night, months ago, when she had waited for her fate in the forest. A fate, she believed to be death, which never came.

_Did I drop it? Did I lose my father's crucifix in the woods? _She felt guilty. It was the only tie to her father that she had left. The only connection. She had not even thought of it for months. _What was I thinking? Why did I not remember? Oh father, please forgive me! How I wish I had it!_

"I need it now more then ever," she murmured, her voice muted in thought.

It had been peaceful staying at the chapel. Christine had found a tranquility that she had not felt in a long time and had attributed it mostly to the ministrations of Sister Catherine, but most especially, to her communion with God. But her heart was still restless. She knew that she could not stay in the small chapel forever.

As Sunday approached, and Sister Catherine busied herself with preparing the chapel for Sunday mass under the priest's instructions, the old nun discovered the talent that lay in her ward. Christine was bent over the pews, polishing the wood slowly, with her mind obviously elsewhere. But her voice! Her voice was raised in song, and Sister Catherine could not remember ever hearing such a lovely voice as hers. It was so pure, so beautiful, but also hauntingly sad.

"Christine," she cried out, startling the girl as she clapped her hands together. "Child, what a marvelous voice you have! I did not know you could sing. We must have you sing at Sunday mass."

Christine rose from her work, brushing her dirtied hands across the apron she wore, and looked up with guilty eyes. "Sister, I cannot. . .I. . ."

"Oh posh! Please, I have never heard anything lovelier. I have not asked anything of you while you've stayed here. You have been an immense help to me, and I am grateful for that. But if you could humor an old woman, please, sing for mass on Sunday."

What if someone recognized her voice? What if they found her? The fear began to melt away when she considered how remote the chapel was. What would it matter? If only to perform for farmers and their wives, she would be able to do that.

She smiled softly and nodded.

* * *

Sunday mass came and Christine felt a familiar nervousness overcome her. It was the same anxiousness she felt when her angel had instructed her. _He is not an angel_. She had chosen the list of songs she would sing and had practiced for hours the day before. Her voice, made even more beautiful by the hours spent under _his_ tutelage, could now rise to greater heights. There was passion in her voice now. But the sadness still lingered there.

After waiting for the small number of locals to be seated in the equally small chapel, Christine's voice rose high among the vaulted ceilings. No one that day could deny that the angels themselves had gifted this sad young woman with their voice. Not a single eye was dry.

_Ave maria  
Maiden mild!  
Oh, listen to a maiden's prayer  
For thou canst hear amid the wild  
'tis thou, 'tis thou canst save amid despair  
We slumber safely till the morrow  
Though we've by man outcast reviled  
Oh, maiden, see a maiden's sorrow  
Oh, mother, hear a suppliant child!  
Ave maria  
Ave maria, gratia plena  
Maria, gratia plena  
Maria, gratia plena  
Ave, ave dominus  
Dominus tecum  
The murky cavern's air so heavy  
Shall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled  
Oh, maiden, hear a maiden pleadin'  
Oh, mother, hear a suppliant child  
Ave maria  
Ave maria_

_

* * *

_

_What is that sound?_ He rode closer to the edge of the forest and bent over slightly on his horse to listen. A voice raised in song. So pure and unspoiled in its beauty. He drew in a sharp breath, knowing immediately the source of the aria. The song was not one that he had taught her. The words of faith were not in his heart to impart on another.

At last, he had found her. He had spent nearly a week, hindered by the new snowfall. But now she was found! As her angelic voice lifted to highs that she had not reached before, he felt an inward pain. He could hear the sadness in her voice. It was something that she could not rid from her singing. Something he had tried, and failed, to remove.

He had the sudden urge to dismount from his horse, run into the chapel just beyond the trees, and gather her to him. But he knew, as the sunlight broke through the trees, that he would have to wait until nightfall. Until then he would have to be content with listening to her voice from afar. But as she continued her song, in a likeness that none other could rival or exceed expect him, he found his longing for her grow.

* * *

"Christine, that was the loveliest mass we have ever had," Sister Catherine beamed. "The angels themselves must have been watching."

Her lovely face grew pale and troubled for a moment. She secretly wished _he_ had heard her song. There was none other in the world who she could sing for. No one else she had worked harder to please.

"Before you go off to bed, I have something for you," the older woman said, pulling something from the pocket of her habit. "A man left this for you this evening. He appreciated your hymn today. I thought it a little strange, but seeing what the gift was, I was willing it pass it along to you."

Christine's expression changed to one of curiosity. She held out her hand as the woman dropped the gift into her open palm. In the candlelight, Christine drew back her hand and moved it around in the dim light, studying it with a strange intensity. A crucifix! The small gold token hung on a chain of gold and glittered faintly. Her thumb drew over the object slowly, as though not believe it was real. The necklace, the crucifix, was her father's!

"My dear! What has happened?" the nun asked, noticing the change in her ward.

Christine slowly raised her eyes to meet the older woman's. "You said a man left this for me. When?"

"Just a quarter of an hour ago. He came to the door and did not say much. I did not see his face, for it was dark and he wore a hood over his head. But his voice! I have never heard a man sound such as that. It was a voice so powerful and commanding, greater then any priest I have ever heard, and yet so beautiful. Enough so that I thought of the angel calling to Mary from the empty tomb," her voice trailed off and she slumped into a chair, as though overcome by the experience.

Christine stood trembling with emotion. Her large, brown eyes were drawn to the small fireplace of the parlor.

"Child, what has come over you?" the nun finally asked, glancing up at her with a worried look in her old, grey eyes.

"Sister," Christine began, "I must leave you now. I have found a peace here that I needed. And I believe I know what I must do now."

"But it is dark outside. Where do you expect to go?"

"Do not worry. My path has been placed before me," Christine said, laying a hand on the nun's shoulder. She bent over to place an affectionate kiss upon the woman's cheek before rising.

* * *

She took what little she had - the modest dress she was wearing, a thick lady's cloak given to her by the nun, and the delicate crucifix, which she now wore around her neck. After bidding a final farewell to the nun, Christine left the small, warm chapel and stepped out into the night. She watched as her breath rose up in the air and drifted up towards the starlit sky. The moon grazed the blanket of snow with its light and illuminated the field before her.

She heard a gentle neigh behind her, as she stood in the meadow beside the chapel, and turned sharply. A dark figure sat atop a magnificent black horse. Silence issued between them for what seemed an eternity.

"Christine," she heard the voice of the man whom she once thought an angel.

She looked up at him, straining to see him in the darkness. This was the way she had always seen him – cloaked in darkness amidst the night or a dream. His elusiveness troubled her. But his voice, so rich and full, was the one thing that she truthfully needed. She had yearned to hear it from the day she had left. The voice only haunted her dreams. But now it was tangible. _He_ was here.

He looked tall, even sitting upon his Arabian horse. His shoulders were broad and his body lean, not painfully so, but suggesting an inadequate diet. She still could not see his face fully. A white mask hid half of it, but his eyes, seemingly golden in the light of the moon, shone brightly. She felt his eyes now, as they roamed over her face and settled on her own. Feeling suddenly afraid, she could not meet his eyes.

"The night is growing cold. Come, you will freeze standing in the snow," she heard him say.

She glanced up, watching as he extended a gloved hand to her. Christine slowly approached him, strangely drawn by his voice, and found her own small, slender hand slipping into his. She felt his fingers close around her hand and there was a brief silence. Never had she seen him aside from dream and delirium. Now his presence was very real. Not a disembodied voice that rose from the walls, but a living, breathing man. She neared him hesitantly and he leaned over in the saddle, pulling her up to sit in front of him. As she settled into the saddle before him, she could still feel the grip of his hand at her waist.

The night air picked up into a slight breeze and dove through her cloak, raising goosebumps along her flesh. She shivered slightly, trying to find a comfortable position to rest, but too afraid to draw any nearer to the man.

"You're trembling," she heard him say, his voice low and husky. She felt her eyes close, savoring the sound that she had not heard for over a week. But fear overcame her, and she lifted her arms across her chest, huddling over the horse's neck for warmth.

She felt him shift in the saddle as he raised his heavy cloak up and wrapped it around her smaller frame, drawing her body back and closer to him. A part of her wanted to resist, and she tried, but another part gave in, and she fell back against his solid frame. Her body still trembled, but she no longer felt the icy touch of the cold wind.

"Thank you for bringing me my father's crucifix," she said, her voice slurred with fatigue.

She felt him lift the hood of her cloak over her head, drawing in more of the warmth to her body. His hand lingered on her head, drawing back a curl that had blown out of the hood. His breath was uneven. The vapor that rose beside her was testimony to that.

"Rest, it will be a long ride home," he said. He began to sing a soft song, and she fell under the spell of his voice, drifting off to sleep, with her head resting against his shoulder.

* * *

It was late in the night when they reached his house deep in the forest. She still lay asleep, pressed against him for warmth, with her face relaxed into a pleasant expression. He dared not wake her as he slipped down from the saddle, lifting her down with him, and cradling her in his arms. She shifted in her slumber, pressing her cheek against his chest and murmuring something incoherent in her sleep. He carried her inside and gently set her down on a divan, removing her boots and lifting a blanket over her, before leaving to tend to his horse.

Christine awoke suddenly, as if shaken from a nightmare, and sat up. She was in a dark room, save for a single candle placed before her on an end table. A blanket covered her body, but she still wore her dress and cloak. Even in the dark, she could tell that she was back in the grand house deep in the woods. She shivered, feeling the cold that had settled upon the house in her absence, and pulled the blanket tightly about her.

Footsteps sounded at the door and Christine huddled against the divan in fear. It was still night. Only a pale gleam of moonlight shone through the window beside the door. But she could see a silhouette there, just outside, that paused briefly before opening the door and bringing in a gust of cold air.

He stood near the door, removing his heavy cloak and riding boots as Christine watched keenly from the divan. Finished, he raised himself back up and Christine gasped. He was tall, more then she had realized before. There was so much power in his step as he walked towards her. Yet grace seemed to command every step. He moved with a masculine strength, but there was a fluidity in his step that reminded her of a panther – an agility or stealth akin to a predator stalking its prey.

Something about his demeanor scared her. Yet there was something intriguing about it at the same time. She dared not look into his eyes, for she knew that the illusion they created in the dark would remind her more of the predator than her tutor. But she could feel them locked upon her, never wavering, and discerning every facial movement, every shift of the hand, every breath taken.

He stood before her, looming over her like a demon hidden in shadow. She tried not to react, but found that her body was no longer under her control.

"You are cold," he observed, his voice now cool and emotionless.

"There is no fire," she said, cursing inwardly for stating the obvious.

"Come, I will prepare a fire in your room," he bent over, reaching out to pick up the candle.

In the small field of light, she could now clearly see his face. She took the opportunity to study it, drinking in every detail like a person thirsty for water. He wore a mask on the left side of his face, white and porcelain, which spread from his forehead down to his lips. It gleamed in the candlelight like a ghostly vestige of her nightmares. His eyes, downcast as he retrieved the candle, no longer shone like a wolf's. In normal light, they appeared a brilliant green. His eyes were narrowed in their task, framed by dark, elegantly arched eyebrows. Where the mask ended, Christine studied the strong, chiseled jaw and chin. His dark, nearly black hair was slicked back from his face.

There was something haunting about his appearance. It was much more then just the mask. There was a terrifying intensity about him. A strange, dark gleam in his eyes that was both entrancing and frightening. An intelligence, much greater then she had seen in anyone before, lurked in the depths of his eyes. He certainly did not carry himself like a trite, ordinary gentleman. This was someone who would never heed the laws of man. He had devised his own laws and edicts to live by. There was a firmness to his lips, as though his mind was always burdened with weightier issues. His jaw was tense, as though he buried an anger deep within his heart. He was handsome, but frighteningly so.

The mask broke all illusions that he was just any gentleman. There was something about the starkness of it compared to the Grecian quality of his exposed cheek that sent a shudder through one's soul. And when he neared her, without intention, to lift the candle from the table, she found herself drawing back against the couch and lifting her hands to her chest in some unconscious defense. He saw her movements, his green eyes shifting to regard her with a cool resignation.

He stood up and walked down the hall, gliding like a wraith through the darkened halls. She followed him at a distance, watching him closely as he stopped at her door and turned the handle. Glancing back, he watched as she stood several steps away, huddled like a frightened child with her hands wound around her body, shivering. Something different gleamed in his eyes for a moment. She could not tell what unnamed emotion it was, but as he stepped aside, allowing her to pass into the room, she nearly scurried in.

Christine moved towards the windows at the far side of the room. She removed the winter cloak and hung it neatly over a chair before resuming her stance near the windows, looking out with fearful eyes. She felt his eyes upon her as he entered the room and bent over the small fireplace.

As he busied himself with lighting a fire, Christine turned slightly and regarded him with curious eyes. Having removed his cloak earlier at the door, she could see that he was dressed in attire befitting a gentleman of impeccable taste. His suit was dark and the jacket, long and properly tailored. He wore a dark burgundy vest beneath the jacket and a black cravat at his throat.

He turned his head sharply, having noticed her regarding him with more then a passing glance. A frown seemed to tug at his mouth, and he rose up quickly. A warm fire had begun to crackle in the small fireplace, casting an orange glow across the luxurious room. Christine stood still, not knowing what to do or what to say. She felt that she had somehow incited his anger.

He was about to leave, when she held out her hand to stop him.

"Wait," she called out.

He stopped, nearly at the door, and turned his head to regard her, the visible portion of his face revealed in the firelight.

She hesitated for a moment feeling like an awkward child. "What is your name? I do not know what to call you."

Something changed in his countenance for a moment. A softening of the features.

"Erik," he responded, his voice strangely quiet. "My name is Erik."

He turned and left. Christine did not move from her position. But as the warmth of the fire lured her, she gave up her quiet reflection and sank down before the crackling flames. Her hands lifted of their own accord and met the welcome heat of the fire. The fire _he_ had made.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N – Well, I usually try to keep the fluff at an acceptable level. I know the story has been high on angst lately, so I thought I would throw in a little fluff to smooth things out a bit. I was debating whether or not I should use the situation I did later in this particular chapter to move the story forward. I thought it might provide for some slight humor or something for many female readers to relate to, at least something I can relate to.**

**

* * *

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**Chapter 10**

That night as she slept in a warm bed, nestled beneath heavy blankets and soft pillows, Christine could not remove her tutor's face from her mind. She saw him in her dreams. Felt his arms wrapped around her. But most of all, she heard his voice as it sang soft, gentle songs to her. She did not want to remove herself from the inevitable loosening grip of sleep. She had never felt safer, especially in her dreams. Where once horror and terror filled her unconscious mind, comfort and safety now replaced them. She nearly cried out when her mind began to pull away from dream. Away from the arms that held her.

She awoke sharply, sitting up in bed, with a faint trace of a tear on her cheek. The dream began to fade quickly and she was left with only a vague memory of music and the feeling of emptiness. The dark drapes of her windows had been pulled back, revealing the lighter, more translucent drapes beneath. Sunlight bathed the room in a hazy golden glow and drew across the bed to warm her limbs.

Christine rose from the bed and moved towards the tall windows of her room. She drew back the light drapes and brushed away at the frosted window before gazing out at the winter wonderland outside. Snow thickly blanketed the trees and ground. The sun was shining through a break in the clouds, revealing a pale blue sky beyond.

She wandered away from the window and rummaged through the wardrobe, finding a delicate blue dress to wear. She slipped her nightgown over her head and stopped for a moment to examine the necklace that hung from her neck, finding new strength for the day, and smiled fondly at the memory of her father. Christine tried her best to lace up the corset, not able to tighten it as best as she would have preferred, but suitable enough. The dress, when she had slipped it over her undergarments, was more beautiful then she had realized.

Christine paused in front of the large mirror and gazed at the reflection with appreciative eyes. The dress, with its delicate short sleeves and low neckline trimmed in lace, fit her frame perfectly. The gown, with its hem almost reaching the floor, was not overly formal but more then she was used to.

She stood before the mirror, running a hairbrush through her long, chocolate curls. How she never grew tired of the feel of a brush in her hair! She remembered when Madame Giry would sit up with her before bed and brush out the tangles from her long mane of hair. The woman could be quite severe at times, but also very gentle when she needed to be. She wondered how Giry and her daughter were doing. For a moment, she thought she saw something else in the mirror. Her brush slipped from her hands and clattered on the floor. But whatever it was, the quick movement of light on darkness, was gone. There was only her, standing before the great decorative mirror with a look of fright upon her fair face.

She took breakfast that morning alone. A small place setting had been set at a small table in the parlor, with its large windows opened to admit the sunlight. She had grown to hate eating alone in the dining room, finding it dark and oppressive. Here, she felt the gentle warmth of the sun on her face and it pleased her.

A small note had been placed beside her dish of fruit and baguettes. She lifted it with uncertain fingers.

_Please excuse my absence during your breakfast. I will be dining with you this evening._

_Erik_

The words were so cold and formal. She wondered if leaving the warmth and hospitality at the chapel was such a good idea. She sighed, glancing out the window with a faraway gaze.

* * *

The day had passed slowly. Christine found herself in the small library, perusing the books and settling for a novel on myths and legends. She spent some time pacing the halls, restless, and not knowing why.

At seven o'clock, she was seated at the great table in the dining room, the candlelight low and intimate, gazing at the setting opposite to her. She had not changed her dress, but she had lifted her hair from her shoulders, pinning it carefully atop her head. Finally a rustle sounded at the door and she looked up to see Erik in the doorway. He paused for a moment before settling into his seat across from her. His formal dress was impeccable, as it had been the night before. She thought she could smell a faint trace of cologne.

He looked up with those burning eyes and regarded her closely for a moment. She felt uneasy, fidgeting with her napkin with unsteady fingers.

"Did you have a pleasant day?" he asked, his voice suddenly filling the void in the room with its richness.

She glanced up, almost eagerly, and nodded softly. "Yes, I did."

They sat in silence for several minutes, neither touching the food set before them, before Christine broke the silence.

"Will you teach me again?" she asked faintly.

He studied her for a moment and nodded. "If you wish, we may start tomorrow."

"I would," she responded. "Thank you," she said suddenly, after a few moments had passed.

"For what?" he asked.

"Thank you. . .for returning this token of my father. It means a great deal to me. I thought I wouldn't see it again," she said, touching the necklace with her finger, head drawn down as the emotion passed. "Where did you find it?"

He was still looking at her, his gaze having never left her while she had spoken. There was something about his gaze that frightened her, and she could not explain why. The intensity was so great that one felt like a mere insect under his scrutiny. She knew what he was not. He was not an angel sent by her father. But there were moments when under his gaze, she was reminded of such a being with terrible beauty and power, that made men both fearful and full of joy at the same time.

"When I found you in the woods, it was lying on the ground before you," he responded.

"But," she hesitated, trouble filling her lovely eyes, "that was months ago. Why did you not return it sooner?"

Some unnamed emotion crossed his face. It was almost undetectable, partly hidden by the strange white mask he wore, but she could see it by the tightening of his jaw, and the immediate removal of gaze from her.

"Eat," he commanded, "you must be hungry."

She looked down at her food with hurt in her eyes. Perhaps she had been misguided thinking that the company of her strange tutor would fill the loneliness in her heart. He was hesitant to share anything with her beyond music. At times, he became cold and aloof. How could she bear company such as his? She did not know what she wanted anymore. Where she wanted to be. It felt as though there was no place in this world for her. She merely existed wherever she went, but she did not actually live.

"Why are you crying?" she heard his voice as she was absent-mindedly picking at her food. It bore something more then the coldness she was growing accustomed to.

She lifted her eyes from her dish and found his gaze on her again. But something else was there now. She saw warmness, if not pity, flash briefly in his haunted eyes. And he too could now see the emotion that dwelt not far in the depths of hers. They wavered with such sadness that he felt the wall in his mind begin to crumble.

"Forgive me," she whispered, rising quickly from the table. "I wish to be alone."

He rose just as quickly as she, if not faster, and nearly reached out to grab her arm as she passed by him towards the door, but his hand hesitated. She stopped beside him, seeing his reaction, and waited for his anger. But it never came. Instead, he lifted a gloved hand to her face. A slender finger nearly drew along her cheek, but he did not allow it to touch her soft skin. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment and her breathing calmed. _What does he want? Why does he not touch me? My Lord, I would die if he touched me! _When she opened them again, he was regarding her with a strange tenderness. His arm had dropped to his side and she now moved to the door with more urgency, leaving him behind to listen to the echo of her feet upon the floor. Her heart would not slow.

* * *

She dreamt again that night. A fear had risen up inside of her and she could not place the source of it. The place on her cheek that he had nearly touched burned like a brand. She writhed in agony. Not in pain or sorrow, but in overwhelming need of something she could not name. She felt as though she would die without it.

When she awoke, drenched in sweat, she cried out into silence. Her voice echoed across the room. Pulling her legs up to her chest, she rested her cheek on her knees and felt tears coursing down her face. _Why am I crying?_ There was no answer. No inner solution to the problem. As the dream began to drift away, her breathing slowed and she began to come to her senses.

The music lesson was to be held at the same time that it used to be. Christine waited in the music room nervously, more anxious then she could remember when her 'angel' had taught her. She heard the door open, followed by his light, confident steps upon the Persian carpet. She sat facing away from him, her hands once again fidgeting with the folds of her cream colored gown. A light sigh passed his lips. It seemed to brush the air and stir a response – she could feel the air hum at her ears. But above all, the most acute sensation was that of his burning eyes upon her.

"Christine," she heard him say, in that velvet voice that could bring a person to their knees in adoration.

"Yes," she responded, rising from her seat and turning to face him.

He looked at her with his strange emerald, haunted eyes and frowned slightly. The mask seemed to accentuate the frown, turning the small expression into one of coldness.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked. The question was strangely personal.

"I. . ." she struggled to find the words, and then resorted to a blatant lie, "yes."

Her head bowed in shame and she was unable to procure a better response. His hand drifted into her sight, rising beneath her chin but never quite touching it, and caused her head to rise up to meet his gaze. She felt trapped, like a pitiful animal caught by a predator. Christine could not tear her eyes from his. She remembered how they seemed to shine in the darkness – yellow, as a wolf's. They seemed to burn right through her now. Saw every lie that lay in her heart. Eyes that threatened. But also. . .something else.

She stepped back from him suddenly, as though he had stumbled upon some terrible secret. Even though he had not touched her, she could feel the nearness of his hand. Why did it burn? Christine drew a hand up to her face and closed her eyes tightly. She could feel him move away from her and break the strange communion. She had been so afraid, but she did not know why.

They continued her lesson, just as her lessons had been before. Only now, Christine was painfully aware of _his_ presence. Aware of him as he circled her while she sang. Aware of him as he sat in the corner, immersed in shadow, but knowing that his concentration was focused solely on her. She tried to stop her knees from quaking. She held her hands clasped together to hide the trembling. But nothing could prevent her voice from being restricted from this unnamed fear. Or her eyes from betraying that hesitation.

"We will stop for today," she heard him suddenly say, rising from his seat in the corner and approaching her with exquisite slowness. "You are distracted. Your voice is not as it should be today."

"I'm sorry," she responded, not wanting to look into those hypnotic eyes, for fear that she would lose herself in them.

"Why do you tremble?" he asked, his voice taking on a softer tone.

"I. . .I don't know," she responded, silently berating herself for making her fear obvious. But how could she honestly fool him into thinking all was well, when he could sense every change in demeanor, every change in emotion, and every stray note?

She heard him sigh. _Is he impatient with me? Have I disappointed my tutor?_ She stood still, waiting to hear angry words, or waiting for the lecture of his dissatisfaction. But it never came. She felt as though she had stood in that spot for an unbearable amount of time. Beneath the lovely cream gown, her legs still trembled. He circled her again, pausing beside her. She turned her head, the long mane of dark curls brushing against the fabric of the bodice, and waited for a response. _Any response!_ _Please, do not make me wait here in this horrible suspense! I cannot endure it much longer._

She felt his eyes upon her, unaware that he had been studying her again.

"You may leave," he said, his voice sounding tired.

* * *

A couple of weeks had passed. The routine of each day began to blend into the next. Christine would take her breakfasts alone and dine with her tutor in the evening. But hardly a word was exchanged between the two. There was a hesitation, a perceptible tension in the air that neither could break through. Christine's voice had steadily improved with each lesson, but try as he might, Erik could not remove the sadness or lack of inspiration in her voice. She had grown steadily silent for most days, taking to the sanctuary of the library or sitting alone in the parlor, staring out the windows, as though waiting for something or someone to come.

He grew exasperated, not knowing what to do. He had never had someone this close in his life. Erik had lived the life of solitude, relying on no one but himself. No one had ever truly cared for him, not even his own mother. He had learned long ago that he must take his fate in his own hands. _Many have died at my hands._

One afternoon, at the scheduled lesson time, Christine did not appear in the music room. Never had she been late before. Never had she skipped a lesson. She had always appeared as the obedient pupil, wary of her tutor's strict instructions. Erik grew frustrated, pacing about the room and muttering to himself. Perhaps this was her way of showing just how unhappy she had been. Finally, unable to endure the silence any longer, Erik surged out of the room and marched down the hall.

Her breakfast lay untouched in the parlor. The door to the library was still closed. He turned around and headed back towards her room. Finding the door closed, he knelt against it, resting his ear to the wood. He thought he heard a soft sound.

Lifting a hand, he knocked loudly on the door. He heard a gasp on the other side, and soft cry, before her voice sounded.

"Yes?" the voice seemed strained.

"Christine!" his voice boomed across the barrier. "You are late for your lesson today. Why?"

"I cannot say," she cried back.

Dissatisfied with the answer, he felt anger rising up inside of him. "That is not an adequate reason. You are not taking your lessons seriously. You are wasting not only your time, but mine as well."

"Please, just go away," she cried back, her voice barely audible.

Christine heard the door open and nearly shrieked at the intrusion. But her mind and body could not will the response. She sat on the floor beside her bed, her body unwilling to move. Hunched over, with her hands on the floor, she tried to suppress the pain that had tormented her all morning.

Glancing up, her hair most definitely an unsightly mess of curls hanging down alongside her face, she saw Erik enter the room. His expression was that of anger. But she was in too much pain to care. Her hand felt along the surface of the bed and she tried to raise herself up further into a sitting position. She still wore her nightgown, and suddenly remembered the immodesty of it, wishing her robe was within reach.

Erik glanced down at her, noticing her heavily-lidded eyes and disarray.

"What is wrong?" he asked, immediately noticing that something was not right.

"Nothing," she cried out, biting her lip, "I just need to be alone! Please, just let me be!"

"You look sick. Your face is pale," he said, stepping closer.

"Please," she said, lifting a hand to stop his advancement.

How could she tell him? _I would only speak of this to Madame Giry or Meg. But to him? I cannot! It isn't proper! But it hurts. . .so much. It burns!_ He saw the tear that slipped from her eye and immediately saw the pain that she was trying so hard to hide behind her brown eyes. Her knuckles were white as she clutched the bed sheets. Her other hand had drifted to her abdomen.

"Christine," her voice on his lips seemed to soothe away the pain, but only for a moment. She watched as he knelt in front of her, smoothing back the hair that was plastered to her pale face. He had touched her, even if his hands were still gloved, but she was too delirious to notice. Her eyes fluttered open again and met his, unable to hide her discomfort anymore. She looked at him with such a pained expression.

"It hurts. . .so bad," she hissed, clenching her teeth. Her hand at her abdomen tightened.

His eyes drifted to where her hand lay. _What could possibly be wrong? _He mentally ran through a list of possible diagnoses, but without more explanation, he could not treat what ailed her.

"Christine," his said, his voice was gentler now. "You must tell me."

She glanced up at him, her eyes wavering and lips trembling, before sharply glancing down in embarrassment. "It happens like this sometimes. But Madame Giry always had some laudanum to ease the pain. I don't have any now."

"What happens?"

"It's my. . .my. . .monthly," she cried out in defeat, not wanted to meet his eyes. _How improper. Especially for her tutor to hear a detail so intimate. . .so private! _

He did not say anything for a moment, and she could only hear her unsteady breathing.

"Please tell me you know what I am speaking of," she cried out softly, praying that she would not have to explain further.

Another tear slipped from her eyes. She felt him gently touch her chin, raising her eyes to meet his. An indescribable expression lingered on his face. He did not appear angry, but yet, she did not know what he was thinking.

"I know enough of human anatomy to know what a woman's cycle is," he said, his voice displaying a sympathy she had not expected. "These are cramps?"

She nodded feverishly, biting back the pain that plagued her. "They are not always like this, but once in a while, they hurt a great deal."

"Can you get into bed?" he asked, still holding a finger below her chin.

She shivered, clutching the sheets in her fist, and shook her head, "I don't want to move. It only feels worse. My head is. . .spinning."

He hesitated for a moment before slipping an arm beneath her knees and another beneath her shoulders, sweeping her up into his arms. Too weary from the pain to care about how improper this was, her teacher carrying her while she was barely dressed, she bent her head against his chest. He lifted her easily into bed, laying her down so gently, as though any sudden jolt might break her fragile body. Erik lifted the sheets and quilt over her trembling body, watching as she rolled on her side and lifted her knees into a fetal position. He smoothed her hair back from her face again.

"I will be back shortly," he said gently, "I have something that will take the pain away quickly. Rest."

She remained still, her eyes shut tightly as she bit back another wave of pain. She suddenly wished he was back. His voice had been the only comfort to her. _No, perhaps his touch_. How she longed to feel the gentle stroke of his hand across her brow!

He returned after what seemed like ages, carrying a small vial of liquid and gazing down upon her with a determined expression upon his face. She glanced up at him, her body still quaking beneath the covers, and tried to sit up as he knelt at her side.

"Drink this," he commanded her, lifting the vial to her lips. "It will ease the pain."

She parted her lips, feeling the cold surface of the vial touch them, and swallowed the bitter tasting substance as he lifted it. She coughed, sputtering the last drops from her mouth.

"It tastes horrid!" she moaned.

"Yes, but it will work," he reassured her.

She lay there for a moment, her arms relaxing as she slumped back against her pillow. Erik took the opportunity to study her. She had never looked so at ease in his presence. Her body was relaxed now. Long, slender arms lay outstretched at her side atop the covers. Her hair was pooled over the pillow, spreading out in dark curls and framing her face like a goddess. The color was beginning to return to her face, flushing her cheeks a delicate rose. Lips so soft lay parted, drawing steady breaths.

Minutes had passed before her head shifted towards him and her eyes tiredly drew open.

"Thank you," she murmured.

He lifted a hand to her forehead. Hovering over her skin, a mere hairsbreadth away, he longed to touch her again. But he knew that he had taken more then a few liberties today. But as he gazed at her, her eyes glazed yet locked on his as fatigue began to draw her into sleep, he thought he saw a silent plea in her expression.

Christine watched as his gloved hand descended upon her brow. She felt the coolness of his hand spread into her skin. Perhaps it was the work of the bitter liquid, but she felt suddenly at ease. _I could die of his touch. _She missed the gentle touch of another human being. Her tutor was very private, and had made it a point to never draw too close, to never bestow even the slightest touch of the hand. But now was entirely different. Something had changed within him. He had broken his own silent rule. She felt her eyes close gently as his hand lingered on her brow. A smile nearly spread across her soft lips.

* * *

**Silent Phantasy – Thank you for your positive feedback. I've been trying to write a story that is different. . .there is a lot of repetition out there. I didn't want to alter too much from the original story (eg. time period, country) but still make it unique enough that it allows for more creative freedom on my part.**

**Jtbwriter – So, Sister Catherine might turn up again? Interesting idea. Wink wink. **

**Thanks to all who reviewed. Sorry I can't respond to each review, but I appreciate all of your comments!**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Well, I managed a bit of fluff and lots of angst for this particular chapter. I am also planning on exploring Erik's past, why he is where is he, eventually. One note though. . .a minor change that I'm making in the story. Instead of having an organ in the music room, I've had the moving guys swing by, pick it up, and replace it with a piano. I just felt that an organ was a little out of place in this context. I also feel that a piano is a little more seductive and enthralling. **

**Chapter 11**

**_"Beautiful Disaster"  
_**

_**  
He drowns in his dreams  
An exquisite extreme I know  
He's as damned as he seems  
And more heaven than a heart could hold  
And if I try to save him  
My whole world would cave in  
It just ain't right  
It just ain't right  
**_

**_  
He's magic and myth  
As strong as what I believe  
A tragedy with  
More damage than a soul should see  
And do I try to change him  
So hard not to blame him  
Hold me tight  
Hold me tight  
_**

**_  
I'm longing for love and the logical  
But he's only happy hysterical  
I'm searching for some kind of miracle  
Waited so long  
So long  
_**

_**  
He's soft to the touch  
But frayed at the end he breaks  
He's never enough  
And still he's more than I can take  
Oh and I don't know  
I don't know what he's after  
But he's so beautiful  
He's such a beautiful disaster  
And if I could hold on  
Through the tears and the laughter  
Would it be beautiful?  
Or just a beautiful disaster**_

_**He's beautiful  
Lord he's beautiful  
He's beautiful**_

_**Kelly Clarkson**_

She awoke later, stirring lazily in the large bed, and glanced towards the windows. The light of a waning afternoon still shone through the tall windows. She felt the last traces of a dreamless sleep slip away from her. _What time is it? How long have I been asleep?_

Her hand drifted up to her brow and she found it strangely barren of _his_ touch. A shiver ran through her body. _Why does he frighten me so?_ The feeling of his leather gloved hand upon her skin was vivid in her mind. It had been cold, just as he was. Just as he always was except for the rarest exceptions. And when he had cradled her in his arms, her body feeling suddenly so small and vulnerable, she felt the power coursing through his tall frame. _He is no angel. But what is he? _

Then she heard it. The faint sound of a piano down the hall. The notes were quiet at first, but gradually grew louder and more passionate. Christine drew herself out of bed and found her robe, tying it about her waist with fumbling fingers. She moved towards the door and hesitated as her hand wavered over the doorknob. _Why do I fear what is beyond this door?_

She moved slowly across the hall, following the notes that seemed to lure her in the direction of the music room. She pressed her body against the wall nearest the open doorway to the room and listened to the song. The melody was impossibly beautiful. It soared at times to such heights that the angels, the real angels, must have looked down in longing. For what mere mortal could grace the keys of the instrument in such a way as to weave a thing of splendid beauty, like a wall of heaven had crumbled and revealed the glory beyond to the listener?

_Angel? Friend? Phantom?_ Christine could take it no longer. He had hidden himself away so cleverly, never revealing who he really was or what his intentions were. And she had blindly trusted him. She had chosen to leave a place of peace and tranquility to return to this ruin of loneliness and despair. _I have given up whatever existence I might have had to return here._

The music began to quiet to a soft melody. She began to hesitate. _Dare I enter and attempt what I'm about to do?_ But her curiosity, no, her will, chose to do the unthinkable. Christine entered the music room softly, her bare feet soundlessly moving upon the carpeted floor. He was seated at the piano opposite to her, his back facing her, mocking her to do what she sought out to do. There was such tension in his back. He had removed his suit jacket, casting it carelessly over a piece of furniture. Through the white shirt that now hung loosely upon his solid frame, she could see every muscle poised.

She hesitated again. _What shall come of this? What will he do?_ She could take it no longer. He had always had the advantage. He had forced her to live this miserable existence. Granted, he had improved within the last couple of weeks, making his mortal presence known to her on infrequent occasions. But this was not the life she could live. This was not the life her father would have wanted her to live. She craved human attention that was still kept far from her pleading eyes. He denied her that even now. There had been no true conversation between them. Only the lessons. If one dared to call the music they had created a conversation, he or she saw far beyond the surface and had an intimate knowledge that many others would not have had.

_This angel of mercy has abandoned me. He has built up my solitude. When he was finished, he retreated back to where I could not see him. _She felt the frustration spread out to her fingertips. As she slowly approached him, she felt her hands drift out, tingling with anticipation. He continued to play, his body almost swaying into the frenzied notes that had suddenly stirred up from the quiet lullaby. Her slender hands rose over his back and drifted closer to the barrier that had hidden him away from her for so long. She watched with fearful eyes as his muscles tensed.

Slender fingers found the edge of the mask, tracing the thin porcelain with determined strokes. But suddenly, as her fingers nearly slipped beneath the edge, his hand shot up and clutched at her wrist painfully. He swung around in his seat, twisting her wrist in a way that made her fall to the floor before him like a penitent child. She watched in horror as his slender, masculine hand tightened its grip on her wrist and she yelped in pain.

"Foolish, child!" he roared. "Prying Pandora!"

She quaked in fear at his unstable grip and found her chin forced up by the commanding grip of his other hand. But above his powerful hold on her wrist, his voice was what frightened her most of all. Her large, fearful eyes locked onto his. For a moment, she found herself in the depths of hell. A hell she had never encountered before, but one which burned darkly in his eyes.

"Do you not understand? You can never be free if you dare look upon my face!" His voice never lost its power. It rose like that of an avenging angel, uttering a curse upon her very soul.

He watched as she lay trembling upon the floor before him, her nightgown and robe scattered about her legs. The girl's long hair fell before her as she bowed her head, nearly hiding her face from his. He reached out to move it aside with his hand, but she pulled away sharply, fearing his wrath as though his hand would inflict a horrible punishment upon her. Christine slid back along the floor when his grip suddenly loosened. She lay trembling beside a couch like a frightened animal, her head buried in the sleeves of her robe.

_I need to leave. I need to get out of here. What was I thinking in staying? If only I could leave this place. But I can't. He would find me. Oh, father, what should I do?_

He watched as she shook with emotion. Her fear of him had never been more pronounced. _I have ruined everything_, he suddenly thought sadly. She lingered there on the floor as though waiting for his verdict.

"Christine," she heard him say, the anger in his voice had disappeared just as quickly as it had surfaced.

She heard him move towards her. That was when she could take it no longer. She felt him approach, waiting like a wounded animal as she cradled her injured wrist, and her legs moved beneath her and lifted her body up. Christine bolted from the room, nearly slipping as her feet sought purchase on the smooth floor beyond the doorway.

He heard her run down the hall. Heard the slam of her door. And then the house was abnormally quiet.

* * *

An entire day had passed before she dared leave the safe recesses of her room. In the course of it, she had attempted an uneasy sleep, drifting in and out of nightmares before she arose and paced about frantically. She sat for the entire morning and afternoon of the following day in front of her windows. Her heavy gaze was often carried upward and she dreamed of a place where she could feel her father's gentle embrace. Too exhausted to cry, she remained there with a dry, stoic face.

Finally, out of sheer hunger, she gathered the courage to leave her chambers and venture down the hall towards the kitchen. The house seemed strangely silent. She should have expected it. She trod down the hall, wearing a fresh nightgown and loosely belted robe until she found the darkened kitchen on her right. Peering inside, she saw and heard no one, and slowly inched her way inside. She looked over and saw a small plate of food lying on the counter. Her brow furrowed in confusion for a moment. She raised her uninjured hand and lifted a piece of cheese from the plate.

Christine ate in silence for a few moments. She was unaware of the presence behind her until it was too late.

"I see you have finally left your room," she heard _his_ voice behind her.

She spun around, the plate nearly clattering on the countertop as she removed her hand from it. She faced him with wild eyes, pressing her back against the counter as she noticed how closely he stood before her. In the dim light, he stood like a towering shadow with only the faint gleam of his eyes shining in the failing light. It was difficult to not be afraid of such a menacing presence. She felt herself begin to tremble again and suddenly wished that Madame Giry were here.

But she was alone.

"You will not speak to me?" he asked, his angelic voice plaguing her.

"Just. . .g-go. . .a-away," she stuttered, dropping her gaze to avoid his.

"I will not," he said, stepping closer.

She raised her hands in a foolish attempt to block herself from him. But as she did so, she felt his fingers upon her wrist. Her eyes shot open and she noticed that he did not wear any gloves. His long, slender fingers were tracing the bruises upon her injured wrist. She whimpered softly as they carefully closed around her hand and drew her limb closer to him. Her strange tutor stood unmoving, examining the bruises that he himself had inflicted upon her. Long fingers resumed their gentle probe, tracing around the circle of bruises, as his other hand cradled her wrist with such gentleness. He looked up at her for a moment and she noticed for a split second the compassion in his fiery eyes. The regret.

"It hurts," she whimpered again, her voice sounding so small.

His attention remained fixed upon the injury as he gently stroked it. She had wondered what his hands looked like beneath the gloves he wore nearly all the time. She wondered why he wore them so often. For as she watched them, she noted how peculiarly long and slender they were then any other man's she had seen. She remembered her father's hands. They had been similar in shape – long, graceful fingers that had worked the violin so effectively. But _his _hands were even more crafted for music. They had such breathtaking grace and fluidity in their movements that one could not help but stare in awe as they worked. As much as they were long and slender, there was a definite masculinity to them. These were not the hands of a mild man, born into a life of luxury and ease. They bore the strength and skill of someone who had lived a harder life. They looked beautiful to the casual observer, but undoubtedly such hands held a terrible power.

The chill of his fingers began seeped into her skin and drew a shudder along her spine. He must have felt it, for he lifted his eyes to her again

"Come," he ordered her gently.

She stood there like a frightened child. Her other arm hung loosely at her side. Those large, brown eyes capable of so much emotion now shone with fear and pain. She seemed to shake like a lamb before the slaughter. _She has every right to fear me_, he thought bitterly, _I have taken many lives._

Drawing her to his side, he led her from the kitchen and down the hall. Ever watchful, he frequently glanced down on her. Her eyes were fixed gravely ahead as though some terrible dark fate awaited her at their destination. Her skin was pale in the last remnants of light. The light shone around her, as he had come to notice, in such a way as to perpetuate the fantasy that here walked an angel of God. She radiated such innocence and uncorrupted beauty that he feared to spoil her with his very presence. _I am but a vile creature. _He continued to lead her down the hall, past her own room and up a flight of stairs that lay at the end. They twisted upwards and led into another a hallway on the second floor.

At last, he stopped at his own doorway and opened it slowly, before carefully leading the trembling girl inside. A small anteroom lay before his suite. There lay a couch before a large fireplace and many antiques scattered about the richly decorated room. Erik led her towards the small couch and indicated for her to sit with a sweep of his elegant hand.

Erik left her for a moment as she waited for whatever fate would grant her. She shivered at the chill in the air. The room felt considerably colder then any other part of the house she had been in before. Her eyes fell upon the walls and she scanned the paintings that hung there. Much like the drawing room downstairs, the small room held numerous paintings of architecture and foreign landscapes. Her eyes fixed briefly on a traveling caravan making its way across a vast desert.

A soft shuffle announced his return. He came into the room and approached her slowly with a small bottle in one hand and a bandage in the other. Her dark maestro seat himself beside her and she drew away from him instinctively. A frown seemed to cross the visible part of his face for a moment. He reached for her hand again and Christine reluctantly surrendered it. His fingers closed around her hand, holding it firmly as he dabbed a light cream upon her bruised flesh. She winced slightly at the pressure.

"What is it?" she asked softly, the fear still lingering in her voice.

He glanced up at her, the white mask gleaming in the candlelight, and his expression seemed to soften. "It will soothe the pain and hasten the healing process," he explained.

She watched him as he attended to her wrist, his head bent in deep thought. There had not been many times when she had had the chance to study him. Most often, it had been the reverse. But as he was busy in his task, she watched him with a restrained interest. His dark, nearly ebony hair gleamed in the dim light. She watched the flicker of his eyes and noted the furrow of his noble brow, from what lay unhidden by the white mask. Fine lines etched handsomely at his eyes were one of the few betrayals of his age. She was but a child, he a man.

He wore his suit jacket even now, but she remembered the thick muscles of his back and the way they moved as he played the piano. In her mind, she could see the movement of his long, slender fingers upon the keyboard as they created a song so darkly passionate that it frightened her to recall its alluring melody.

His lips were firm in his concentration. She felt herself having difficultly drawing her gaze from them. As his head rose, having finished with his ministrations, a subtle blush filled her pale face. His dark green eyes locked onto hers. _Why do I feel so frightened every time he looks at me? _She drew her hand away quickly, focusing her attention on his handiwork. The wrist was beginning to numb, and he had wrapped a bandage around it carefully. Her fingers drifted across the bandage with purpose, but her mind was far away in thought. _I can still feel his touch._

Her hand drifted up to her mouth as a yawn finally broke through.

"Why did you do it?" he suddenly asked her, his eyes growing gravely serious.

She looked at him and immediately knew what he was referring to. "I don't know. I needed to know. . ."

"Is it not enough that I am here? You cried out for someone real. Am I not flesh and blood?"

She lowered her head in thought. She suddenly wished that Sister Catherine were here to advise her. She always knew the right thing to say.

"Yes," her voice trailed off. "But for all that I know you could be a figment of my imagination. As cold and lifeless as someone created in my mind. You hide from me and refuse me even the simplest of human contact."

_She does not know what she silently asks for. She has not seen this face._

He sighed heavily, lifting his hands to the mask that he had worn methodically for so many years, and was prepared to pry it off. To make her see what she was asking for. But he suddenly felt her small hands on his. He looked into her wavering eyes.

"No," she cried out.

"You want to know that I am no mere figment of your imagination. Let me show you the face that you could not imagine in your dreams," he said with a saddened resignation.

"I do not want to now," she breathed, bringing her uninjured hand to her face, and burying her mouth in the sleeve.

She felt a strange satisfaction from his action. For once, his resolve seemed to have crumbled and exposed a strangely human interior. Christine could see now that he did not hide from her to fool her. There was a bitter past behind his actions. A past that he was not willing to let go of. She suddenly wondered how she could have been so selfish. But a question that had never been answered suddenly forced itself from her lips.

"Why did you lie to me?" she asked. "Why did you pretend to be my angel of music?"

"You wanted an angel," he said, his voice growing deeper, "and I accommodated that wish."

"But I thought it was real. I thought the promise my father had made was true. That I would never be alone again. But everything I believed in was a lie. I am more an orphan then I have ever been before. There is. . .n-nothing in this world for me," she cried, her lip trembling.

"You wanted a guardian. A teacher. I can watch over you just as your father did," he said. She watched as his hands seemed to tremble at his sides.

"I wish he were here right now," she replied quietly. "There was so much love in his eyes. Now, I feel as though a part of me is dying."

An unbearable silence seemed to spread throughout the room. _If she only knew. I could not bear it if she left my side. I would kill to keep her here. _

She felt as though she were dying from sheer loneliness. That every moment spent in silence was bringing her closer. And yet, another part ached for the voice. _His_ voice. That part of her surged with life whenever his voice sounded. So much so, that she was like a delicate rose, whose bloom sought out the sunlight of his voice and dared to open its petals to the song. That part of her filled her with fear. She was afraid of losing herself in his song. So many times, she felt she had strayed too close to the edge when he sang to her. A terrible ache or longing had filled her soul and there seemed no way to quench it.

She felt something warm on her shoulders and shook herself from her silent reverie to watch as he wrapped a blanket about her shoulders. He walked to the fireplace and quietly made a fire. When he finally lifted himself up from his task and turned, he found she had already fallen asleep on the small couch.

* * *

Marie Phantom - I hope the EC goodness was OK. I know it could be better, and it will be eventually, but I just want to slowly build it up. I likes the angst! He he.

vivian49 - yes, following your suggestion, I will explore Erik's past in greater detail. Thanks!


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N - Sorry about the long wait for this chapter. The work week was very busy and frustrating. But I managed to write a longer chapter for you! I hope this caters to those who desire more E/C, those who desire the angst, and those who desire. . .ahhh. . .be patient, smoochies will come in the future. I know Christine is a bit fearful these days. But she's still trying to figure out what she's feeling. She's never been in love or had someone love her, so she's a little scared about that.   
**

**Chapter 12**

_She felt the shadows of the house engulf her. Day turned to night and all of the windows drew back their light. Only she remained. She stood in front of the window she had been gazing out, like an ethereal being, with a delicate nightgown trailing behind her in a gentle breeze. She noticed the absence of light. Watched as it fled the long hallway she now found herself in. _

_The faintest of sounds drew her attention from the window. Deep in the heart of the shadows, something moved. Darkness seemed to follow it as it advanced towards her. A sting on her cheeks forced her hand to her face. She ran her knuckles across the skin, feeling the wetness of tears upon her pale features. _

_Why do I cry? What was I watching beyond the window?_

_He was closer now. She could feel it. Every muscle in her body poised. The flesh on the back of her neck rose in goose bumps as she felt the stir of air. The wind caught the train of her gown, sending it fluttering in the air, like the aura of a spirit. _

_She suddenly stiffened when she felt the presence so close and she dared not move, for fear of provoking it. But as she felt a hand drift up to her cheek, hovering over the skin, she drew in a ragged breath and turned to glance up at the one who stood near her. His face was masked in darkness. The hand finally brushed the remnant of her tears from her cheek with a gentle stroke. Fingers lingered on her skin, stroking the flesh which such tenderness, that she felt her eyes flutter shut. A curved finger continued to stroke her cheek, moving along her jaw and finally rising up beneath her chin. A thumb moved across her parted lips._

"_Why do you cry?" a voice asked. _

_That voice! She felt her soul melt at the very sound. Felt all of her rational thought flee her body and leave only the basest of emotions. The fear that had once haunted her steps, haunted her dreams, and even haunted her waking thoughts was suddenly gone. Something more foreign, more dark, filled every sense. _

_Another hand drifted down and caught hers. She remained motionless, paralyzed, as the hand drew hers up slowly. It rose across her breast, and ended its journey at the exposed flesh of her throat. Never once did those fingers touch her, but she could have sworn that it was another's hand that drew across her skin, and not her own. _

"_Why do you not sing as you were meant to?" the voice was low and feral, but at the same time, so utterly captivating in its beauty. _

_She felt her hand guided down to the top of her nightgown where it stopped. "You do not sing from your heart. Why do you hide it from the world? From me?"_

_Another tear slipped from her eyes as they gazed vacantly ahead. She felt the hand at her shoulder gently turning her from the darkened window. Now, all she could see was the dark presence before her. She could smell the musk of cologne, feel the warmth emanating from the body before her, and did not resist when she was drawn towards it. First one arm, and then another circled her body and drew her closer. Her face pressed against the solid muscle of a shoulder. And as she sighed, feeling the pain leaving her mind, a hand drifted to her head and stroked her hair. _

The dream was ended just as quickly as it had begun. It left the dreamer crying out into the early morning and writhing with pain as she clutched the blanket that covered her form.

"Don't go!" she cried out.

Christine opened her eyes quickly. They were clouded with tears, and she fought desperately to blink them back. The room was still dark and she could not see anything, save the dying fire.

"No," she choked back bitterly, as she realized it had been a dream.

She felt a weight on the couch suddenly, sinking down the plush cushions beside her body. A hand touched her forehead.

"Christine," she heard a gentle voice. _That voice!_ A sob wracked her body as she realized. Oh how she longed to be back in the embrace of the dream. As much as she did not want to admit it to herself, her body ached to be held by that faceless entity of her dreams and nightmares. The same entity, she now realized, who sat beside her and regarded her with a calculating gaze.

"It was a nightmare," she heard him say. "Do you have them often?"

She could not answer. She could not give away her darkest secret. He would know. As soon as she spoke, he would know! His hand was at her arm, holding her firmly but gently as she tried to rise. Through the thin material of her robe and nightgown, she could feel his touch. It was not as cold as death, as it had felt before. Now it burned the skin beneath. Burned like it did in her dreams.

"Why are you trembling again?" he asked, his voice changing to a tone of suspicion.

"I-I have to go," she cried out, pushing her body up on the couch. But she found herself sitting uncomfortably close to him now, not realizing where he had been sitting.

"Morning has not even broken yet, do you want to return to your room?" he asked softly.

She nodded furiously, knowing that he could see her response, even in the darkness of his room.

"You will not make it far by yourself. I don't want you tripping in the hall and injuring your wrist any further."

"But I want to go back," she replied, her voice unusually urgent.

She heard him sigh in the dark and suddenly felt him sweep her up into his arms. A mournful cry left her lips as he pulled her tightly against him. She was afraid and she did not know why. In her mind, she tried to come up with a reason. She did not fear that he would harm her. His anger was easily provoked, but there was no anger in his arms now. She did not fear the darkness of the house, for in his arms, she felt safer then she could ever remember. Neither did she fear a monster from a dream. _I fear the feelings that rise within me when he is near. I do not know them. How could I? I am scarcely a woman. I fear the way he looks at me. I cannot describe it, only as a starving wolf would look upon a lamb. _

Her hand was beginning to tighten on the lapels of his jacket. He saw the fisted, white-knuckled hand in the darkness.

"You need not be frightened, Christine," he said softly.

She knew she could not bear his voice for much longer. It was so tender and rough at the same time. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest. She felt as though she would die from his voice. That she would drown in its depths. Christine buried her face in the folds of his jacket, her fist never loosening.

The embrace of sleep began to pull at her body again. Dream had never fully released her. It had only enhanced the longings that had been planted in her mind. He felt her breath through the layers of fabric at his chest. _Nearly there_, he repeated to himself countless times.

As he lowered her body back into the soft sheets of her bed, he felt his arms begin to tremble. The slip of her hair across the exposed skin at his throat nearly undid him. Now he watched as her body settled into the bed, a hand still clutching his suit with desperation. He forced himself to unlatch it from his lapel, laying it gently at her side as he brought the other hand up over her body and bent over to examine the damage he had caused earlier. Erik stroked the bandage, watching as she winced softly in her fragile sleep. He lifted the wrist gently to his lips and hesitated for a moment, watching as her eyes fluttered in a restless sleep. But he could not deny himself this one small pleasure and pressed a soft kiss to her hand. His lips did not want to leave the soft skin. But he forced himself away, fighting back the bitter emotions that welled inside.

As her body began to still, her lips parted in dream and she murmured the words that drove him from the room in agony. "I am dying. . .from you."

* * *

She sat alone at breakfast, her hair piled loosely behind her head, with a faraway expression in her eyes. Snow was beginning to fall again beyond the large windows of the parlor. Something about it seemed to call out to her. She licked her lips, having finished the buttery croissant upon her plate. _Where does he get this food from? I have never once seen him cook. Of course, I have never spent much time beyond my room and the library. _

Christine gazed down at her gown and noticed the crumbs, brushing them off with her hands. As she did so, she admired the beauty of the gown she had chosen today. It was a soft, pale blue gown with lovely green embroidery along the neckline and the sleeves. The fine needlework stretched out a pattern of leaves and delicate flowers. The gown gathered in the back like most fashionable dresses of the city and hung down in a modest cascade of fabric.

A presence at the door suddenly broke her train of thought. She whirled around in her chair but found nothing. She could have sworn that she had heard a shuffle at the door, seen a shadow fall across the floor, or heard a sigh uttered.

She rose, brushing off the last of the crumbs from her skirts, before lifting the plates from the table and carrying them to the kitchen. But as she strode down the hallway, she nearly collided with a solid frame that suddenly appeared before her. Christine looked up quickly and nearly gasped. Erik stood before her like a specter of the ancient house.

"You. . .scared me," she said breathlessly.

"I seem to have that effect," he replied bitterly. He seized the plates from her hands.

"What are you. . ."

"You need not to do that. You are my guest," he interrupted, turning towards the kitchen and walking away. The lines of his back seemed tense.

"Thank you," she said quietly as he retreated.

She stood there for a moment in the hall, unsure of what to do, and feeling very much like a fool. Finally, her gaze drifted up to the tall, curtained windows and a frown tugged at her lips. The snow had been so lovely. Christine reached up and tugged back the heavy drapes, forcing the shadows back and allowing the blinding white light of the winter afternoon to invade the darkened halls. She continued her task, moving methodically down the hall and disturbing the solemn nature of the windows. When she was finished, she looked down the long hall with a sense of satisfaction and smiled faintly.

* * *

The afternoon was spent in the library. There was nothing else to do besides read. Christine had pulled several interesting books from the shelves and retreated to the tiny sitting room. She was not there long before she knew _he_ was there, standing in the doorway. Glancing up, she watched him as he stared at her. _What could he possibly be thinking? Why does he say nothing?_ Finally, he moved from his position at the far doorway and seated himself at the desk, just beyond her sitting room. She could see him hunched over a stack of papers and ledgers, completely immersed in his work. She continued to glance up at him as he worked, finding that her attention on the book had long since strayed.

He stirred after several minutes but did not turn to face her.

"What are you reading?" he asked, never turning his head.

She stiffened for a moment, pulling her attention back to the novel lying on her lap. _What was I reading?_

"A History of Persia," she responded, reading the title quickly from the book.

There was a long pause before he rose from his desk and stood in her doorway, watching her carefully as she shuffled through the pages, trying to avoid his eyes.

"Does it interest you?" he asked.

"What?"

"Persia."

"I have never traveled very far beyond my own home. Only when I was small did my father take me with him from Sweden to settle in this country. But I have seen very little of the world since," she explained, her gaze drifting to one of the windows beside her small couch. "I love to read about places I have never been. I could not imagine what a place like Persia is like."

"I have seen the lush courts of the royal family in Persia," he said, his voice suddenly drifting in an unexpected way.

Christine glanced up at him, wonder filling her large brown eyes. "You have been to Persia?"

"Yes," he said, almost bitterly.

"What was it like?" she asked with all of the expectancy of a child.

He leaned heavily against the doorframe. She found his gaze was no longer fixed upon her. Instead, it had drifted far beyond the confines of the room to a place she could not pinpoint.

"There was much beauty in its sunsets, when hues of rose and orange filled the sky and stretched for miles beyond all human reason. The scent of incense filled the air. The gardens were more lush and exotic then you can possibly imagine. Seas of rippling golden sand spread across its deserts." His words seemed to flow from a source that she had not seen before. The description had been so breathtaking, that she felt a wave of emotion swell within her. She longed to see what he had seen. To smell the sweet spices, to touch the lush flowers of a royal garden, but most of all, to behold a sunset unlike any other.

He glanced down at her, noticing the look of wonder spreading across her delicate features. How he longed to run his hand along the gentle curve of her cheek! To brush back the curl that hung down from her chiffon. He watched the flicker of an eyelash upon her cheek as she lowered her gaze for a moment. But he suddenly remembered more then he cared to. He remembered a past when his hands had been soaked with the blood of countless people. There had been so much more to his tale he dared not share.

"But the beauty of Persia was tainted by the barbarism of its leaders. There were no ethics in their courts as there are here. Young girls such as yourself, or younger, were forced into a life of servitude for the shah's pleasure," he explained, his eyes pulling away from hers again.

There was silence between them again, as Christine absorbed the horror of his statements. With question in her eyes, she finally broke the stillness.

"Why did you leave?"

He turned his heavy gaze towards her again, and she nearly flinched under the agony of it. There was a pain in his eyes that she had never seen before. A regret. A torment.

"Christine, there are things that you are not ready to hear. Perhaps one day. . ."

She sat there quietly, her hands folded neatly in her lap, and she gazed away from him with a troubled look in her eyes. He could be so evasive sometimes. When she thought she had tapped into a hidden side of him, he would quickly rise up and shut out her gaze from that secret. _Where else on this earth has he been_, she wondered. _What countless secrets lie behind those haunted eyes?_

"Where else have you been?" she asked innocently.

He looked at her with affection and seemed to smile faintly. "I have seen the steppes of Russia, the cathedrals of Italy, and even the temples in New Delhi."

"I wish I could visit those places," she mused, her voice strangely at peace.

"Perhaps someday you will," he said softly.

She looked up at him and met his gaze for a moment. There was something different in his eyes that she had never seen so naked before. It was not sadness but more of a longing. His eyes no longer burned as they always did. There was softness in his expression, a fondness that warmed his stern, coldly handsome features not hidden by the barrier of the mask. If he had never been cruel and cold, if she had known only this gentle nature that seemed to appear only on the rarest of occasions, she could have sworn that he was like any other gentleman. But there was a look to his eyes that she often noticed. They were such beautiful eyes, but they held more grief and horror in them than one could possibly gather in a lifetime. When she saw this look about him, she was suddenly reminded how very young she was. She had seen very little, accomplished very little, and beside this stoic, unearthly man, she felt strangely vulnerable.

He suddenly rose from the seat beside her. She had not even noticed him sit down. Her tutor, her mentor, and her maestro extended a hand to her and she immediately felt strangely compelled to follow the gesture.

"Come," he said, his voice almost ringing with unrestrained emotion, "we will resume our lesson."

When they had reached the music room, Christine stood in her usual position and waited for him to sit at the piano. But he did not follow the routine. Instead, he stood behind her. She knew, even without looking, that he was there. Every nerve of her body could sense it. He was not moving. But she could feel his eyes burning into her. She thought she could hear the sound of his breathing and felt her eyes flutter closed when his voice finally broke the unbearable silence.

"Sing me a song of your father's," he said.

She was about to turn her head in question, but he quickly stopped her. "No, don't turn around. Stay where you are."

"Could I not sing one we have practiced before?"

"No," he said abruptly. "I want to hear something you are familiar with. I want to hear you sing as you did with your father."

She glanced down with a troubled expression on her face.

"Please," he added. How could she deny that voice? She felt every word surge through her and enthrall her very soul. She would do anything for that voice.

And so she felt her eyes close as a familiar song began to rise up within her, from a place where it had remained locked since her early childhood. She remembered first hearing it in the night when she had woken from a nightmare. The simple lullaby soon became one of her favorites. And when her father began to coax her to sing, she sang the song herself, much to his delight.

Lips parted, a shaky breath was heard, and then the song flowed.

_Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee _

_All through the night _

_Guardian angels God will send thee _

_All through the night _

_Soft the drowsy hours are creeping _

_Hill and dale in slumber sleeping _

_I my loving vigil keeping _

_All through the night _

_While the moon her watch is keeping _

_All through the night _

_While the weary world is sleeping _

_All through the night _

_O'er thy spirit gently stealing _

_Visions of delight revealing _

_Breathes a pure and holy feeling _

_All through the night _

_Though I roam a minstrel lonely _

_All through the night _

_My true harp shall praise sing only _

_All through the night _

_Love's young dream, alas, is over _

_Yet my strains of love shall hover _

_Near the presence of my lover _

_All through the night _

_Hark, a solemn bell is ringing _

_Clear through the night _

_Thou, my love, art heavenward winging _

_Home through the night _

_Earthly dust from off thee shaken _

_Soul immortal shalt thou awaken _

_With thy last dim journey taken _

_Home through the night_

The song ended and there was only silence. A single tear streaked down her face and she looked ahead with glassy eyes. Never had the song sounded more beautiful. Of course, she was only a child when she had last sung it. But now, under her tutor's instruction, her voice soared to such clear heights. She felt a silent sob wrack her body. But as she knew she was still under his scrutiny, she remained rigid and tense, waiting for his response.

He did not say anything. _Why does he not speak? Can't he see how this pains me? _She felt something at her hand and glanced down to find his hand enfolding hers from behind. His fingers hesitantly, and then more assuredly, entwined themselves with hers. She felt his breath at the back of her neck and stiffened. His other hand rose to her face. She turned her head gently and regarded him out of the corner of her eye as he stroked away the tear with his finger. She could almost feel him right behind her. He stood so close and yet kept a space of separation. The warmth of his body began to pervade her senses. The normally subtle smell of his cologne was nearly intoxicating, and she suddenly longed to step backwards into his embrace. To feel his arms surround her. She longed to press her tear stained face against his shoulder. To feel him gently stroke her hair. To feel his hand cup her face.

Her breaths ran ragged and uneven know. He could feel her hand tighten and a shudder run through her body. _I have moved too quickly. She still fears me_, he silently berated himself.

"You sang with more feeling then you ever have before," he whispered beside her ear.

Her eyes closed in agony. Agony at his voice which had the power to control her soul. She did not know what she wanted. She suddenly felt so incomplete. Something within her was empty and she knew she would die without it. This was how he killed her, day after day, night after night. His voice tortured her. It reminded her that something was missing. Something she could not put a name to.

Uncharacteristically warm hands slipped away from her hand and cheek and left her cold. She shook where she stood. Not from fear. Not from faintness. She shook because she suddenly realized that she needed the presence of this man behind her. She would die without him. As she turned, unrestrained, to look upon his face, she gasped at the candid desire so blatantly displayed in his eyes. Never had she been looked upon in such a way by a man, and it scared her.

_Look how she shrinks from me like fallen prey! Do I frighten her that much? Oh God, she has not even seen my face. _His hands felt cold again as they dropped by his side. There she stood like a frightened child, her large glistening eyes looking to him for guidance. To say something.

_Must I say it? Must I break this horrible silence, _she cried inwardly.

"I sing only for you," she cried out, her delicate voice breaking. It was almost an accusation. As though she had pent up the statement for years and had finally expressed it with the accumulated rage and agony.

He watched her as she shook with emotion and finally fled from the room. _What does this mean? Oh God, what new torture is this, _he cried inwardly with fury rising up within his heart.

She retreated to the safety of her own room. Only then, did her heart begin to slow. Only then, did her breaths shallow. Only then, could she remember his touch and not feel ashamed.

* * *

Kat097 - Sorry about the lack of smoochies in this chapter. Fear not, they will occur eventually. Must build up suspense and tension.

tink20 - I really love Kelly Clarkson's new CD. I never thought I'd say that about such a blatant pop icon from American Idol. But there is so much emotion and anst to her music, that I feel it fits right in with the story. I was also considering incorporating Because Of You into this.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N - Well, after much hemming and hawing over how this chapter was going to be written, I finally have the finished product to deliver. Not finished as in end of story. Far from it! I must warn you, I spilled the bag of Angst when I was cooking this chapter. Be warned! **

**Chapter 13**

She was restless and the feeling would not go away. The snow had stopped falling and the ground was now thick with snow. But she could stand the house no longer. She needed to get out and breathe in the fresh winter air. With no hint of Erik in sight, Christine donned a red winter lady's cloak over her dark gown and laced up a pair of boots. She pulled up the fur trimmed hood and hurried out the door, tugging on the slender black gloves she had found in her wardrobe.

The wind chilled her cheeks, but she smiled at the icy touch. She remembered the many winters spent with her father. She could almost hear the bells of their horse-drawn sleigh upon the snow during a long Swedish winter. The image of the horses prancing before her was so vivid. Their exhalations rose in the cold air. She remembered her father smiling down upon her, as she lay tucked under a warm fur blanket, the frost nipping at her nose and cheeks. The cold was familiar to her. Although she longed for spring, with all of its fine greenery and flowered meadows, she enjoyed the cold nights of winter when one sat close to the fire with a warm drink, and heard stories and sung songs until late into the night. A smile tugged at her pale cheeks.

She stood ankle deep in the snow outside of the door. Icicles hung from the eaves of the house and frost covered the panes of the windows. She glanced up at the large house and admired its beauty in the drapery of snow. The stables suddenly caught her eye and she wandered toward the low building. The doors were tightly shut to keep out the cold. Christine laid a hand on the latch and lifted it. Inside the straw insulated building, she caught sight of the beautiful creatures that whinnied at her approach. The black one, the sleek Arabian, seemed to bow its head as she stopped to reach a hand out to stroke his mane. He neighed softly, bobbing his head in an amusing way as the young woman continued to bestow her affections on him. Beside his stall, Christine spotted a few other horses, but mainly, a lovely white mare. She marveled at her beauty as she moved to stroke the creature's nose with her gloved hands. If she believed the fairy tales her father used to tell, she could have sworn that the creature was more a unicorn in its unearthly beauty then a mere mare. But it was lacking a horn as Christine noticed with amusement.

A soft clear of a throat behind her suddenly pulled her from her thoughts. Christine spun around and saw Erik standing in the doorway. He wore a heavy dark cloak over his clothes, which appeared to be more fitted for riding then is usual formal attire. He wore a hood over his head, drawing in some semblance of shadows to hide his face.

"I was. . .admiring your horses," she said, suddenly feeling very foolish.

She heard him stir from his spot near the door and approach her until he stood beside her. Erik lifted a hand to the stallion, and Christine watched in admiration as the horse lifted its head to nuzzle its perfectly shaped nose against the hand of its master. He whispered a few words into the horse's ear before pulling back with a faint smile on his face.

"This is Leil," he told her.

"Ley-al," she repeated the foreign name, "what does it mean?"

"It is Persian for night," Erik responded, running his hand along the stallion's nose in great affection.

"And what of the other, the white mare?" Christine asked, pointing to the graceful creature that seemed to watch their conversation with mild interest.

"Alyona," Erik responded, moving towards the timid animal, "it is Russian for moon."

"She's very beautiful," Christine responded, feeling an instinctive pull towards the animal.

She reached up and moved her slender fingers along the horse's nose. The horse seemed to calm under her touch. It grunted quietly, pressing its nose against the palm of her hand as she caressed it. Christine laughed as it continued to nudge her even when she backed away. The soft laughter was such an unfamiliar and foreign sound, even to Christine. As she turned her head amidst her own laughter, she found Erik regarding her with a strange light in his eyes. Her smile began to fade.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," he responded, his voice sounding strained. He turned away from her for a moment, his head almost downcast. "Alyona is very particular about whom she bestows her affections upon."

Christine smiled softly, returning her attention to stroking the horse, but she could feel Erik's eyes upon her for a while.

Finally, he broke the uncomfortable silence. "Would you like to go for a ride?" he asked.

"Can we?" she asked.

Erik almost smiled at her enthusiasm, surprised that her weeks of sadness and solitude seemed to vanish within moments. His eyes drifted to her bandaged wrist.

"I would allow you to ride her, but because your wrist is still in a state of repair, perhaps it would be better if you would ride with me."

"It feels better," she said softly, stroking the bandage absent-mindedly as her eyes locked onto his.

His emerald eyes were burning into hers. "I do not want to risk further injury," he said, his voice strangely quiet.

"Alright," she agreed.

Christine drew away from him and watched as he readied his own horse, Leil. He drew a saddle from the wall and placed it upon the stallion's strong back. As he bent over, fitting his steed, Christine watched him quietly. He had drawn back his hood to better examine his ministrations. From this angle, she could see the unconcealed side of his face. She watched, embarrassed if he should catch her studying him so, as he set his mouth in a firm line while adjusting the saddle. So intent on his work, he did not notice the young woman staring at him. She could not help but notice how handsome he really was. Those elegant, long, tapered fingers worked swiftly on the saddle. She remembered the countless times she had watched them. Then she suddenly remembered the rare occasions when they had drifted across her face. She found herself lifting a hand to her own face as her mind was mired in thought.

"Are you ready?" his silken voice asked.

She glanced up at him, nearly startled, to find him regarding her with curiosity.

"Yes," she struggled to say.

He motioned for her to come closer and when she stood awkwardly beside him, she felt his hands at her waist. She drew in a sharp breath as they tightened and lifted her up onto the horse. Firmly in the saddle, with her dress carefully draped about her and her cloak hanging down nearly to her boots, Christine watched Erik as he rose up behind her in the saddle.

Christine could barely remember a time when she had been this close to her strange tutor. When he had come for her at the chapel, she had been tired, and had not paid much attention as he rode back with her, asleep in his arms. But now, when all senses were acutely aware, she felt suddenly nervous. She could feel his strong frame right behind her. There was nothing to do but rest her body against his.

"Have you ridden much?" he asked, his voice so close to her ear.

She turned her head slightly.

"You're tense," he observed, "your hands are tight upon the mane. It's alright. I won't drop you. I assure you, I am an experienced rider."

She had not realized, but indeed her hands were clenched in the horse's ebony mane. She loosened her grip just as his arms came around her, drawing the reins up.

They rode down the lonely, snow-laden road, with only the sounds of Leil grunting in the cold. Christine watched as her breath rose up on the air. She could feel the chill of the air upon her cheeks and undoubtedly, they were rose-hued. The ride was so peaceful that she nearly forgot where she was or whom she was with. A light snow had begun to fall.

"Are you warm?" she heard him ask softly.

"Yes," she replied, knowing that he could not see the small, pleasant smile upon her lips.

They rode in silence for what seemed like hours. They left the road and took a course on a trail winding through the still forest. But the passing of time or the chilling of the late afternoon air went unnoticed.

"How did you know where to find me?" she asked suddenly.

"What do you mean?"

"When you found me in the woods after the men had brought me there, how did you know I was there?"

She felt him stir in the saddle. "I am more aware of what occurs within these woods then you may realize. I watched as they brought you to the tree and tied you to it."

A frown tugged at her mouth. "You. . .watched me? But, I was there for so long. Why did you not come to free me sooner? I spent hours there. . .in the cold and in the dark. I thought I was going to die. I even. . .wished. . .for it," she said sadly, her lovely voice faltering.

The horse came to a halt and Erik slipped down from the Arabian. He turned and looked up at her, an unreadable expression on his face, but one combining anguish and guilt with other, more powerful emotions. He looked up at her as she still sat in the saddle. Her hood had fallen back and revealed the glorious cascade of brown curls. Eyes of deep brown stared back at him with hurt. Her face was pale, and amidst the snowy backdrop, her rose lips were more pronounced.

He lifted his arms and gestured for her to reach out to him. Christine reluctantly complied, feeling his hands once again at her waist. As she slipped down and dropped softly down into the snow beside him, she found herself paralyzed for a moment. His hands had not released her yet and she stood there, her small hands still gripping the fabric of the cloak at his shoulders. She felt one his hands release her and felt a silent protest rise up within her. But suddenly, she found that he had raised his hand to her face, and was running it softly along her cheek. It felt warm upon her cold cheek and she ached to lean into his touch.

"Never wish for death," she heard him say. His voice was low and husky. "I could not bear for you to leave this earth."

Her large, glistening eyes rose up to meet his. She found herself transfixed by his penetrating gaze, as though he truly were an angel as she once believed. The soft pad of his thumb continued to stroke the tender flesh of her cheek. She felt her eyes flutter shut to hide back the emotion that was welling behind them.

"Don't close your eyes," he nearly whispered. "Do not hide whatever pain it is."

"We both have our own secrets," she murmured. "You have yours. . ."

"You do not know what secrets I hide," his voice drifted. "But you are an innocent in this world. Such a person does not deserve death, or the pain I see in your eyes every day. I waited that night because I knew you wanted an angel. I heard you pray for one. I am no angel, but I considered your plea. It was. . .the only way."

"What other secrets do you hide from me?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.

"Christine," he said gently, withdrawing his hand from her face, "do not ask me these questions. You do not know what you ask for."

"I will always be a child in your eyes, won't I?" she said sadly, stepping away from him and drawing her arms up around her body.

"Come," he said softly, turning his back on her as he trudged through the snow.

They walked for a few minutes before the woods began to part and Christine could glimpse an open expanse beyond the line of trees. She nearly gasped when she saw what lay before her. But she drew up her gloved hand to her mouth and suppressed the noise. Ahead, beyond the last of the trees, lay the clearing that she had not seen for many months. A couple of miles beyond the tree line laid the small town of her youth. Smoke rose up from the chimneys of the snow covered houses with their thatched roofs and shuttered windows. Only faint glows of firelight and candlelight lit the windows, but beyond that, nothing stirred in the cold outside. It was already late afternoon, and the winter sun was beginning to sink low in the sky.

A cry befell her lips as she walked forward slowly, finding that he had brought her to the edge of the cemetery. It was a sight that she never would have dreamed to see again. The walls of the small cemetery rose up like strange monoliths in the snow. The iron gate was partially open. Christine wove her way through the entrance and found the graveyard quiet and still. The headstones poked out solemnly through the layer of snow. Statues of heavenly hosts and cherubs lined the rows. Her hand drifted across the frozen surfaces. She did not need to look to find where she was going. So instinctive was her journey that she suddenly found herself before the familiar grave of her father.

She dropped to her knees in the snow and lifted her steeped fingers to her lips. Her breath warmed the frozen tips of her slender fingers.

"Father," she whispered. "I did not expect to come here again. You do not know how much I have missed you!"

Her voice faded but her lips began to move in wordless prayer. She did not notice as her vigil was disrupted by another. A dark figure, so out of place amongst the whiteness of the landscape, stirred and followed her to the grave of her father. There, Erik stood behind her in the snow like a fallen angel and watched as his own angel prayed. He could remember how she had sat just like this before her father's grave when she was younger. The practice was still the same.

He saw her tremble and her shoulders shake slightly, as she sat in the snow. The hem of her dress was already caked with snow. There was a difference in this scene now. Before, he could only watch as she sat praying in front of her father's grave. She had never known of his observations. She had never sensed his presence. She once had only her pain to comfort her. Granted, there had been the affectionate arms of Madame Giry and her daughter Meg. But nothing could replace the embrace of her father. There was no one who could have drawn her to them and truly cared for her with an undying love. A love not bought or asked for. A love that had always been and would always be. She had never known of a love like that. She still did not.

But he was here now. She did not know everything. She could not. . .yet. He did not know if she was ready for such unrestrained claims of an emotion that he had never harbored for anyone else in his life. But he was here now. He could at least comfort her in her pain and bring some semblance of protection to her trembling body.

She felt strong, gloved hands at her shoulders. They turned her around as she lay in her sorrow. Erik knelt behind her. He drew her shuddering body into his, and she felt the heat of his body envelope hers. He wrapped his cloak about her as she nestled her head against his chest. A sob wracked through her body and he wrapped his arms around her tightly. Nothing mattered now. _Damn the self restraint. Damn all of the times I have held back. I cannot deny her anything, _he thought.

He felt her small fingers tugging at the collar of his shirt. Her warm breath seeped through his clothes and caressed his skin. But all of his selfish desires were irrelevant now. She needed him and he would not fail her. But this strange, close intimacy was foreign to him. Never had anyone wanted to be this close to him. Not even his own mother wanted to touch him. His was a face that only repulsed and horrified. But here, now, with this young woman in his arms going through a similar grief, he felt a sudden kinship.

His reward was a muffled _thank you_ beneath the fabric of his cloak.

The journal back was long. Not only was the daylight beginning to fade, but the chill of an oncoming night began to freeze the bones of even the most acclimated individual. Erik rode as swiftly as he could, avoiding the prying eyes of townsfolk by leaving the cemetery by the distant way that he first come, and prompting his horse into a quicker stride. Christine, so overcome by the day's events, lay nestled before him, pressed against his body for warmth. Her head was nearly buried in his cloak, but often when he looked down at her sleeping form, he could see the flutter of her eyelash upon her cold cheek.

They finally reached his house late into the evening, by way of several hidden trails that eventually led to the main road. Not wanting to wake her, he carried Christine inside and stopped in the drawing room to light a fire in the large fireplace. But as he was about to place her on one of the many couches, he felt her fingers tighten on his shirt.

"Christine. . ."

"Please," she whimpered softly, "don't leave me."

He smiled softly, knowing that in her sleep-induced delirium, she probably had not noticed. "If you wish me to stay, I will," he said gently, "I will build us a fire first."

She waited as he made the fire, drifting in and out of sleep fitfully. But every time sleep threatened to claim her, she was rattled awake by the dreams that were filling her mind. _No, please God, not now. I cannot endure these dreams anymore._ She felt the tangle of his arms about her every time she closed her eyes. Felt his hands moving across her arms. And when his voice sounded in her mind, she felt all defenses dropping. She was so utterly vulnerable to that voice. It was a voice that could drive her to him in an instant. She could feel the crush of her body against his.

"Please. . ." she cried out softly in the haze of dream.

Her eyes shot open and she saw her mysterious tutor standing before the fire, his silhouette framed by the orange glow of a large fire.

"Please what, Christine?" he asked, strolling towards her.

There was something about him that looked dangerous now. Perhaps it was his darkened form looming before her like a vengeful spirit, outlined by the flames of hell. Or perhaps it was the strange fire that rose up within his eyes. A fire that frightened her because her mind was too afraid to conceive of its meaning while her heart throbbed with the knowledge and truth of it.

"I was dreaming," she said softly. She rose quickly from the couch, as though if she were to stay any longer, she would not be able to leave.

She stood before him trembling, the blanket slipping from her shoulders.

"What did you dream about?" he asked, his voice so alluring she fought inwardly to reign in her thoughts.

_I cannot meet his eyes. If I do. . .I will never escape them. He will know. . .everything. Oh, but how I wish I could be braver. How I wish I could fall into that sweet oblivion without fear. To look within his eyes but for an instant!_ She looked down at the floor, but his finger caught her chin and forced her face up. She still could not meet his eyes, but they burned into her.

"Look at me," he commanded. His voice was stern but gentle.

She refused, without word, but still he persisted.

"Christine," his voice nearly boomed, "look at me."

Her eyes, which had fought so hard to avoid his, were suddenly thrust upon the emerald pools – one peering from behind the strange mask, the other naked on his exposed cheek. His eyes searched hers for what seemed like an eternity. Wavering eyes of brown fought hard to avoid falling into the trap. _Why must he torture me like this? Does he not know what power he has over me? This is why I'm afraid! This is why I cannot endure his passing glance. . .his touch._

"What did you dream?" he asked again, this time, using the power of his voice to command her.

Her lip trembled, eyes watered, and she shook her head with ferocity. "Why must you do this!" she suddenly cried out. "Why must you know everything? Why must you control me so! Do you not see how much it hurts me?"

Erik was suddenly behind her with his arms raised beside her own, as if to draw her back into an embrace, but they reluctantly fell back to his side. She could hear him breathing, and because of his closeness, could feel the rise and fall of his chest. But it was nearly drowned out by the racing of her heart. He began to calm. The fury and emotion of the moment began to pass. She had not realized how escalated the argument had been.

"Do you fear me?" he asked, so softly, his lips near her ears.

"I don't know," she quaked.

She felt his hand graze her cheek softly. His knuckles drew across her jaw in the most tender of gestures. Her eyes fluttered shut. They moved to the exposed flesh at her neck and she almost cried out in protest as her head moved to the side of its own volition. A finger gently stroked the delicate skin.

"Please," she whimpered.

"Please what?" he asked, his voice husky. His attention never wavered from the gentle caress.

"I'm. . .cold, sir," she replied.

He turned her around gently and gazed into her uncertain eyes. _You lie_, he seemed to say. There was so much confusion and trouble in her lovely eyes.

Erik looked down upon her and found that his other hand had moved to grip her arm. His grip softened and he lowered his hand to reach for the blanket that hung below her arm. Erik pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and found that she was still shivering. He brought his arms around her, one beneath her knees, the other behind her back, and lifted her into his arms.

"What are you. . ."

"Shhh," he said softly. "Don't struggle."

He carried her back to the couch and laid her down gently, careful to adjust the blanket. Rising again, he walked over to a nearby chair and slumped down into it. Christine began to feel sleep descending upon her mind. Her eyes grew heavy. But she kept watching her strange angel as he sat across from her, bathed in shadow, his eyes glowing.

_It was more vivid this time. She was no longer in the strange hall with its tall windows and fluttering curtains. This time she was in the dark. Though she could not see that it was him, she felt his arms about her from behind. For once, she did not struggle, nor did she protest. She let her body fall back against his and felt his chest rise and fall with each breath. He drew his arms tighter around her and she leaned her head against his neck. Now, the soft lips that she had studied so often brushed against her ear. _

"_You do not know what you ask for," he seemed to warn._

"_I don't care," she found herself saying, lips trembling with emotion._

"_But you should," he responded, drawing away from her suddenly. _

_He began to slip back into the shadows. His hands grazed her features, slipped across her cheek, and brushed her parted lips before vanishing into the darkness. _

"_N-no!" she choked. "Don't leave me!"_

_Nothing._

"_I would die!"_

_Silence. He was gone._

"_Please," she sobbed bitterly, tears coursing down her pale cheeks. "I need you. . .so bad."_

_Then she thought of the only word that might stop him._

"_Erik," it fell from her lips in a whisper._

Her eyes flashed opened. She had been dreaming again and her face stung with fresh tears. She brushed her hands bitterly over the mess. She looked up to find the fire still burning in the great fireplace. Her legs were twisted around the blanket that had once covered her body. To her shock, _he_ still sat across from her. Not sleeping. Not drifting off in thought. No, his attention was focused squarely on her. His eyes burned in the shadows. Strong, slender hands gripped the arms of his chair.

He suddenly leaned forward, and in the firelight, she could see his face. The exposed half was filled with some unnamed emotion. _He knows,_ she cried inwardly, _he knows! _

"Erik,' she whimpered, not knowing if it was a plea or a defense.

But as he rose up suddenly and knelt beside her on the couch, she did not care anymore. She did not care if he thought her a child. She did not care about the protests of her mind. She did not care that she still feared the strange emotions his nearness stirred. When he embraced her, his arms pulling her body tightly into his, she did not struggle. She leaned her head against his arm.

"I'm afraid. . .and I don't know why," she cried softly.

"Shhh," he lulled her, "I would never harm you."

"I know," she replied, her eyes closing in sleep as he stroked her hair.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N - I wrote furiously for one sitting and nearly wrote the entire chapter. Inspiration seems to come in spirts. I didn't want to make this one too cheesy with the Christmas theme, but I was pleased how it turned out. I hope you enjoy it. I consider it a Christmas treat to all of the readers and especially those who have provided encouragment for me to keep writing. Thank you, and Merry Christmas!  
**

**'Oh Holy Night' is taken from the original French carol 'Cantique de Noel' composed by Adolphe Charles Adam (1803-1856) who also is best known for the ballet 'Giselle.' The original lyrics are a bit different, and I really like the English version.**

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 14**

She woke up alone and in her bed. The night before seemed like a dream now. But as she rolled over in bed, Christine's eyes fixed upon an object that reminded her that it had been real. A single, blood red rose lay on her nightstand. Affixed to it was a delicate black satin ribbon. She reached out to touch the flower, but her fingers strayed upon the ribbon and she was suddenly reminded of _him_.

Christine rose in the light of mid morning. She hastily pulled on a forest green velvet gown. _I nearly forgot_, she thought. Her gaze wandered to the windows. _It's Christmas Eve, and I had not even known until today. My first Christmas without Madame Giry and Meg. How I wish I could be in that small cottage now, sitting by the fire, and singing carols with Meg!_ Her sad gaze was drawn back to the interior of her room. She pulled back her hair loosely behind her head with a red silk ribbon and continued her toilette.

It was late in the morning when Christine finally ventured from her room. She was surprised to find the halls were lit with the light of the morning, the heave drapes having been cast aside. She walked towards the parlor in search of her breakfast as it was so meticulously set out each day. But instead of finding the small tray set before her soft chair, the room was empty. Perhaps he had gone out. She walked towards the kitchen and was fully prepared to make her own breakfast. But the dining room was opened wide, admitting the sunlight that spread throughout the halls. She could see now that a few windows lined the dining room on one side, but were normally shuttered closed with seamless wooden shutters. A soft snow was beginning to fall outside and each pane of glass was frosted.

The long table was curiously arrayed with platters of food – fresh rolls, fruits, cheeses. A steaming cup of tea had been left at the place setting she normally sat at. Her brow furrowed as she cautiously entered the room, unsure if the sight was real or not. But as she was about to sit down, Christine felt a slight breeze behind her and heard the scrape her chair against the floor as it was pulled back. She sat automatically and looked up with curious eyes as her strange tutor finished seating her. He never said a word but proceeded to the other side of the table to assume his own position.

"You laid out this breakfast?" she asked.

"You see no one else, do you?" he asked, almost jokingly, but his mouth never relaxed into a smile.

"Why?" she finally responded.

He glanced up at her for a moment and his gaze seemed to soften. "It is Christmas Eve, isn't it?"

A small smile crept across her mouth. "You knew?" she asked, not able to conceal the wonder in her voice.

He nodded softly, filling his plate with a modest amount of food. She watched as he leaned back and quietly picked at the small plate of food. His body, she did not want to admit studying it so, seemed rather thin. Although he was tall and strong in frame, he seemed slightly malnourished, as though he cared little for eating. _What thoughts, what preoccupations could distract him from a proper meal? _

"Why do you not eat more?" she suddenly asked.

He looked up from his plate, surprised by her question, and seemed to study her for a moment, devising an explanation. When he did not respond, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"You don't each very much, do you?" she asked. "You should, it is unhealthy to skip so many meals."

"And when did my student suddenly become my nurse?" he asked, a deadpan expression on his face marked only by the raising of an eyebrow.

She blushed slightly, drawing back her gaze from him and felt her hands fidgeting in her lap.

"My father always urged me to finish my meals," she smiled softly at the memory, still looking down at her hands. "Did your mother not tell you the same?"

She heard his glass clink on the table and glanced up to see his demeanor suddenly altered. "She reminded me on many occasions. But it was only out of disgust that she did so. She did not truly care about my health," he replied bitterly.

Christine looked at him with startled eyes. _What bitter memory is this? What have I stumbled upon?_ She could tell that the subject bothered him and now was not the time to discuss it. Once again, he seemed to have withdrawn himself into a bitter reverie. But she only wanted to smooth over the sudden disruption of the moment. She could not leave the moment hanging in such a way.

"_I_ urge you to eat," she responded softly, glancing up at the man before her, "but only because you look thin and could do with some nourishment. For your health's sake. It will not do to endure a cold winter sickly."

She felt his eyes briefly brush over her as he lifted a slice of cheese to his mouth. Christine harbored a subtle smile on her lips.

The rest of the day was spent in relaxation. Erik had foregone the plan of another lesson, noticing that Christine's mind was very far from music today. Indeed, she could only drift back into comforting memories of spending Christmas with her father. She could remember the gentle strains of his violin, of the modest Christmas tree decked out in any shiny object that could be found, and of the roaring fire that begged any chilled bones to sit near its warmth and sip the hot mulled Swedish wine. They were pleasant times. But they had long since passed. She knew that.

Christine spent the afternoon in the library, perusing through several books that she had carried from the shelves. But she was not alone in her solitude. Her tutor sat at his desk for many hours, undoubtedly working on his own business, while she read quietly beneath a blanket in the small adjacent room.

When he grew restless from his work, he would rise and wander into her sanctuary, gazing longingly out of the windows. _What strange thoughts run through his mind? Why is there so much sadness in his eyes? He hides it from me, but I know it's there._ When he tired of his pacing, he would finally slump down into one of the chairs near her couch and watch her as she read. She found the whole act terribly distracting, trying very hard to focus her eyes on the book in front of her, but feeling his eyes always upon her.

"I am going out for a little while," he announced suddenly.

She lowered the book onto her lap and regarded him quietly for a moment. "Where?"

"I cannot say," he replied stubbornly.

"When will you return?" she asked.

"Later this evening," he replied curtly.

He did not see the disappointment in her eyes as he rose and started to leave the room. She fidgeted with the pages for a moment, staring out the window listlessly, before returning her troubled gaze to the book.

It was late in the evening and the house was dark, when Christine finally gave up waiting for her teacher's arrival. She padded down the hall in her bare feet, carrying a single candle to the light the way. He had been strangely silent. _Did I do something wrong?_ She remembered the night before when he had held her in his arms with such tenderness and stroked her hair. Glancing again down the darkened hall before she entered her room, Christine sighed softly before slipping through the door and climbing into bed.

* * *

Christmas Day promised a gentle snow at the least. After she had awoken, and slipped on a warm burgundy dress trimmed in white lace, Christine paused at her window and watched the snow fall. It was a pleasant day outside, but something about the holiday was missing. There was no warmth in it anymore. No joy in the ritual. She suddenly longed for familiar faces and settings. A tear coursed down her cheek, but she was too distracted to notice. She longed for more dependable company. Her strange tutor was certainly not dependable. One moment he could muster more anger then she had ever seen, the next, he could be more tender then anyone she had known, save her father. But he was so aloof. He was never around for very long, and when he was, he was so unreadable. A familiar loneliness crept into her heart.

She emerged from her room and solemnly walked down the hall. The tears had flown more freely now, and she wiped them away frequently as she walked slowly with her head bowed.

But before she passed the large drawing room, a barrier suddenly blocked her path. She glanced up, startled to find Erik standing before her. He wore his usual black suit, with a dark burgundy waistcoat and dark cravat at his throat. A strange look filled his visible features, but when he saw her tear-soaked face, his hands were suddenly upon it. He drew up her chin with his finger and used the other hand to brush away the moisture on her cheek. She looked up at him with shameful eyes.

"Why are you crying?" he asked tenderly.

She looked at him but her eyes moved down quickly. "I was. . .lonely."

He nudged her chin up again, forcing her eyes onto his. No words passed between them, but somehow, she found a strange comfort in his green eyes. Erik's hand was gentle upon her face as it slowly caressed her reddened cheeks. His finger nearly brushed over her lips, but he hesitated and pulled away. She stood there, her face flushed, trying desperately to distract herself from the moment by brushing out the folds in her gown.

"That dress becomes you," he said in a strained voice. "You look very. . .lovely."

She looked up at him and smiled shyly.

"Come," he suddenly announced, extending his hand.

She hesitated before sliding her slender hand into his, which was uncharacteristically ungloved. His hand was warm and his grasp comforting. She glanced at his hand, noticing how large and masculine it looked compared to her own. Even with the grace of his musician's hands, he still had the strength and size that befitted a man in his prime.

He led her into the drawing room. A pleasing fire was already stirring in the fireplace. A few windows had been opened to admit the light. But the most stunning sight of all was the large Christmas tree that stood to one end of the room. It was quite tall, well over both their heads. Around it was strung lovely garlands and arranged on its branches were many ornaments of every color and shape imaginable.

One thing was missing. The angel. Christine noticed the bare sprig at the top of the tree. She glanced at Erik for a moment and smiled.

"You did this. . .for me?" she asked.

He nearly smiled, but it was a faint smile that graced his lips. "Yes," he replied.

"Thank you," she breathed, "so much! No one has ever done anything like this for me before. Except for. . ."

A long silence fell upon the room. Christine gazed up at the top of the tree again. "There is no angel," she said faintly.

"There never was," she almost heard him say, but it was a muted whisper. But he turned to her and gestured at a small box on a nearby table.

Christine drew close to it and carefully opened the small wooden box. Inside the velvet lined box rested a lovely angel. Its wings were of the softest white feathers, and its long tunic made from the purest of silks. She looked back at the man who remained always in the shadows. Her eyes were more alive now then they had ever been before. There was a healthy gleam in their depths.

She drew the small figurine carefully from the box, cradling it in her slender hands as she admired the handiwork. "Where did you get this? It's exquisite!"

"I made it," he replied.

Christine glanced up at him in surprise. "You made this? It is so beautiful. I've only seen such work in the shop windows of the cities. But even this far exceeds anything I've ever seen."

"Would you like to put it on the tree?" he asked.

Christine stepped beside him, still enthralled by the craftsmanship of the angel. Erik quickly slid a chair over to the tree. She felt his hands at her waist as he helped her up onto the chair and then steadied her as she hung precariously over the tree. But she did not fear his touch now. She felt safer in his grasp then she ever had before. Perhaps it was because of his good spirits. Once she had aligned the ornament properly, Christine glanced down at him and smiled broadly.

"It's beautiful," she remarked, staring up at the angel in awe.

But she did not notice the heavy gaze that had fallen upon her. She did not notice the soft sigh that fell from his lips as he gazed upon her. _My God, she is so beautiful. Does she even know. . ._

"What's wrong," she asked, having looked down upon him once again, her lovely doe eyes fixed softly upon him.

"Would you sing?" he suddenly asked, helping her down from the chair.

"Of course," she replied, "what shall I sing?"

"Sing a carol. I am afraid to say that I don't know many."

She looked at him with trouble in her eyes. _He is my teacher, and he does not even know a carol. _

"Alright," she replied.

She remembered a lovely one in particular and remembered singing it with Madame Giry and Meg, though she had to admit that the enthusiasm to sing was never quite there. But now, something had changed. She felt she had to sing this one. That it carried some unknown meaning that had to be delivered to the listener.

She suddenly remembered the words of Sister Catherine.

_Perhaps you were meant to be there. There is much we do not know about life. But God directs our lives unseen. Perhaps you were there for a reason. If not to cure yourself of this pain you carry, then to bring this man out into the grace of God._

Christine suddenly found the inspiration to sing. The words flowed from her like never before. The highs were so incredibly beautiful that she found herself weeping because of the sheer beauty of the song.

_Oh holy night!  
The stars are brightly shining  
It is the night of the dear Savior's birth!  
Long lay the world in sin and error pining  
Till he appear'd and the soul felt its worth.  
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices  
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn! _

_Fall on your knees   
Oh hear the angel voices  
Oh night divine  
Oh night when Christ was born  
Oh night divine  
Oh night divine _

_Led by the light of Faith serenely beaming  
With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand   
So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming  
Here come the wise men from Orient land  
The King of Kings lay thus in lowly manger   
In all our trials born to be our friend. _

_Truly He taught us to love one another  
His law is love and His gospel is peace   
Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother  
And in His name all oppression shall cease  
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,  
Let all within us praise His holy name. _

The song ended and so filled with a feeling of warmth and comfort, she found herself turning to see her teacher's reaction. What she saw was so unexpected. A single tear had left his eye and traveled down the pale skin of his cheek. Never before had he shown that much emotion. But as the tear slid from his eye, she suddenly felt such pity in her heart that she leaned towards him and gently lifted her hand to his face. He almost flinched away from her touch, as though an insignificant creature like herself had the capability to harm him, but slowly relaxed when her fingertip touched his cheek. She delicately brushed the tear away and slowly withdrew her hand.

"My singing could not have been that bad," she muttered, a smile hiding within her eyes.

"Far from it," he replied, brushing the back of his hand across the exposed flesh of his face. "You sang like an angel."

"Ah, but there is no such thing," she said mockingly, raising an eyebrow in amusement. "Isn't that what you said?"

"None that I believe in," he replied bitterly, turning sharply from her.

She felt disappointment at his sudden change. For once, she thought she had peered through his cold exterior and witnessed a spark of life beyond, but he had quickly shut the door. Her hand, still hovering where he had once been, fell limply by her side in defeat.

"Then tell me," she asked, trying to sound as civil as possible, "if you do not believe in such beings, do you believe in God?"

He had turned his back on her. But he turned his head to the side in reply. "What God is there that has brought such a ruined creature into being and scorned him at every turn?"

"I don't know what you speak of or what you have seen. . .or done," she replied softly, "but I know that he does not scorn you."

He did not reply.

"_I_ do not scorn you," she added.

"You would," he replied. "You don't know it now, but you would."

He turned and left. But she did not fall apart. She could not. The feeling of warmth still permeated the room, comforted her, and gave her strength. There was only sympathy in her heart now. Christine lingered there, gazing at the tree, and looking upon the angel. After she had warmed her feet by the fire and sipped a cup of mulled tea to soothe her mind, she finally decided to break the silence.

Christine made her way down the corridor with purpose in her step. She took the unfamiliar path that she had only taken once before. Up the winding stairs she strode, careful not to creak the stairs as she passed by. When she reached the top, she glanced around timidly for any sign of him. The door to his room was ajar, and she could hear him moving about within. Christine pressed herself against the wall just outside his room. _Should I go in? Should I speak with him? I probably shouldn't be here._

She finally made up her mind and slowly entered the darkened room. The small anteroom was just as she had left it a while back. But the fireplace was dead. No warm light permeated the room and infused the small couch with any warmth. Her steps grew more cautious as she passed through the room and dared to enter the forbidden territory beyond. _His room_. She had never seen it before. The darkness was so palpable now and she suddenly grew fearful.

A clatter sounded at the far end of the room, and a large room it seemed to be, even in the darkness. She slowly continued her journey. As she neared the far side of the room, she could see his form perched over a table. A few heavily curtained windows permitted only enough light to make out shapes and shadows. Christine inched closer and closer. Her feet were beginning to take reluctant steps, afraid of what lay before them. She passed by the looming shape of a large canopied bed and felt the wooden posts for support in the dark.

She was nearly there. _I'm nearly there!_ She could see now that he sat hunched over in a chair at a small desk. His suit jacket had been thrown aside, the cravat torn from his neck. He wore his white lawn shirt, sloppily untucked from his dress pants. She heard him sigh heavily and some inaudible groan passed his lips. Her hand lingered above his heaving shoulder. The fingers curled fearfully. All she could hear was his unsteady breathing. It reminded her of some fearsome creature who was only a hairsbreadth away from attacking her. _Should I provoke him? Will he go mad and harm me? But I must speak with him!_

He turned slightly, as if sensing something, and she could not do anything but stand rigidly where she was. But what she saw startled her. For the side of his head that first fell into her view was the masked side. Only now, there was no white porcelain mask concealing half of his face. There was only a blazing eye burning like the depths of hell. She gasped, not realizing she had, and found herself stumbling backwards. Erik was faster. He shot up from his chair and approached her in the dark like some terrifying predator.

"Is this what you wanted to see? I have given you so much, and this is how you repay me?" he snarled.

"N-no!" she protested, stumbling backwards once more.

"You never could turn your gaze away from it, could you? You had to see what monster lies beneath!"

"I-I. . .that's not. . ."

"Look, foolish girl!" he screamed, thrusting open one of the heavy curtains and allowing daylight to spill in.

The light spread across the room, lighting the dark bedspread on the large bed and running across the floor like an infection. She did not want to look. She did not want to enrage him any further. But when she continued to lower her gaze, refusing to look, she felt his hand roughly jerk up her chin.

"Look at what you have wanted to see!" he boomed.

She yelped at his touch and obeyed. Her eyes fastened upon his face. _Indeed, what a shocking face_, she thought. The exposed half was the same as she had seen it before, so utterly beautiful in its shape and form, but so coldly handsome that it filled her with fear. The other was marred in the opposite way. Gone were the chiseled features of a master craftsman. Instead, the flesh on the other side was twisted and wrecked. His eye was sunken in but still shone with the same intensity as the other. And the nose, so elegantly shaped on one side, disappeared and melted into his features on the other.

His hand was upon her arm now, jerking her towards him, thrusting his face into her field of vision so it was all she saw.

"How does this please you now?" he growled, his hot breath searing the flesh of her cheek as she struggled to turn away.

She trembled in his grasp.

"Well? Speak! You, sneaking Pandora! Speak!"

"I-I'm sorry," she whimpered softly.

"Sorry?" he snarled, "is that all?"

"I'm s-sorry for what you have had to endure," she cried softly.

"And how do you know what I've had to endure, child. How?"

"I see the pain in your eyes and it tells me everything. I see it whenever I sing for you," she cried.

He let go of her arm. The anger that so utterly enraged him was beginning to disappear. Defeat slowly began to creep into his heart. _She knows, oh God, she knows! She has seen my face and will never be free of its horror!_

Erik heard her weeping silently beside him. How could he have turned on his young student, his ward. ..his angel, when he had promised her no harm? He was angry at his own stupidity. He could not bear to see the mark of his touch on her arm tomorrow. A hand was laid on his own arm. The muscles tensed under the contact, but when he felt the finger of her hand softly caress him, his demeanor slackened.

Her other hand sought out his features like a reluctant child studying the face of a stranger. Soft, slender fingers ghosted across the unmarked side of his face. They traveled along his jaw in tenderness before slipping across the other side. But before she could touch the marred flesh, before she could offer the only kindness she could think of, she felt his hand clutch at hers. His fingers tightened firmly, but gently, around hers.

"No," she heard him said, his voice husky.

She dropped her hand away in response and watched quietly as he found his mask upon the desk and hastily replaced it. He stood there for a while, the strength and authority returning to his body, before turning slightly to regard her.

"Leave me," he said softly.

She looked at him like a scorned child, her eyes wide with sadness and regret. She fought an inward battle but soon gave up when she saw the urgency in his eyes. Christine turned from him and ran out the door. She nearly tripped as she hurried down the stairs, grabbing onto the wooden railing for support, before nearly collapsing at the bottom. Her chest heaved with emotion. But she pulled herself up and found the safety of her own room.

Only when the door was closed behind her did she sink against it and cry out.

* * *

It was not until late in the evening, as Christmas was drawing to a close, when she finally emerged from her room. She opened the door slowly, peering outside into the darkened hall. She did not really expect anyone to be there. But as she slowly crept out, something grabbed her ankle and she nearly shrieked in terror. Glancing down, she saw _him_ sitting on the floor beside her door, resting his back against the wall. Her hand drew up to her heart as the fright began to pass.

"What are you. . ."

"Christine," he said her name with that heavenly voice. He quickly rose from his spot. She could tell he had been sitting there for quite some time as he groaned with the movement.

He stood beside her for a moment. Her large, brown eyes never leaving his. She quivered, feeling the chill in the night air through her nightgown. She had only meant to sneak off to the kitchen for a snack – she was not expecting to be seen. But he stood before her, mask firmly in place, as though nothing had happened. He still had forsaken his suit jacket. The white shirt that had been hastily tucked into his pants still lay slightly unbuttoned upon his strong frame. She pulled her eyes away, cursing herself inwardly for her thoughts.

"Forgive me," he said quietly. His usual authoritative demeanor had been replaced by that of a pensive man. "I did not wish to frighten you."

"I was afraid when you grew angry with me," she said, her large eyes drifting back up to his again.

"Your arm," he gestured, "did I?"

She rubbed her arm softly where he had clutched her earlier. There was no bruise, but she could still feel his grip there somehow. "No," she said quietly. "You did not hurt me."

His hand lifted hesitantly but he finally gained the courage to draw his finger along the side of her arm, as though it were imperative that he examine it for himself. His hand snaked gently around it, lifting it slightly so he could examine it. A tremor passed through her body at his touch. Erik looked back into her eyes.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked, his voice in nearly a low whisper.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly. _I can't tell him. Not yet. Why must my body betray me with every casual touch?_

"Forgive me," he said, gesturing at the mask upon his face, "for fueling your nightmares with this."

"I am not afraid," she said, this time a little louder.

Erik looked at her with a calculating gaze. Her gaze no longer wavered upon him. There was clarity, a determination, in her eyes.

"You startled me, I must admit. I did not expect to find you without the mask. It was not my intent to take it from your face. But I-I cannot lie. I have wondered what you have hidden from me."

He continued to study her and she grew restless under his scrutiny. "Will you continue under my study knowing the things that you have seen?" he asked.

Christine hesitated for a moment before replying, "Yes."

"I have something for you," he said after a long moment of silence.

She looked uncertain as he drew something from behind his back. It was a small box, wrapped in shiny, colorful paper and tied with a black satin ribbon. A smile nearly tugged at her lips when she saw the ribbon. The same kind of ribbon so affectionately tied around the rose.

"What is it?" she asked, as though she had never received a present before.

"It's your Christmas present," he said softly.

"But I. . ."

"Please, open it. I understand if you despise me. Do not feel that you have to associate this with me," he said, almost bitterly.

"No," she countered, fixing her soft eyes upon his hardened expression. "I was going to say that I have no gift to give you. You have given me so much. My music," her voice trailed off and a small smile spread across her lips as she drifted into thought. She looked up at him again. "I do not have the means to give you a gift worthy of all of the time you have spent teaching me."

Erik gazed down upon her. His eyes seemed to suddenly soften as he listened to her words. She noticed the change. His shoulders relaxed and he did not seem as imposing.

"You do not owe me anything," he said quietly. "Your voice is good enough a gift."

She smiled faintly again before returning her attention to the small box that now rested in her cupped hands. Like an eager child, she pried at the paper and reverently pulled off the lid. Her eyes widened as she beheld the gift lying in the box.

"This is beautiful," she mused.

Christine lifted a delicate silver necklace from the box. It glittered in the moonlight that streamed from the nearest windows. The chain was of a delicate silver weave. At the base were fixed three delicate diamonds. Christine had never seen such a gift before. She had always lived a modest life as a child. Her father could never afford much beyond food and shelter. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined getting a gift befit for a wealthy lady.

"You do not like it?" he asked, breaking her train of thought.

She had not realized, but her gaze had drifted away sadly as she thought about the past.

"No," she said, turning back to him, "no. It's not that. I have never received such a gift before. It must have been expensive. I don't want to be a burden on your finances."

"Stop," he said, seizing her hand unconsciously.

She looked down at his hand at it clasped hers. But she felt her gaze pulled up to meet his.

"You are not a burden," he said, firming his hands on hers. "I. . .wanted to give you this gift. No one else could possibly be worthy of it."

She blushed slightly, looking down from his intense gaze.

"Put it on," he said.

His hand loosened from hers and she opened her palm again to find the exquisite necklace still pooled in her hand. Christine lifted the chain to her neck and fumbled with the clasp for a moment before turning her uncertain gaze to the eyes of her teacher.

"Could you. . .could you help me," she asked.

He did not say a word as he lifted the ends of the chain from her fingers and moved behind her. She lifted her long mane of curls and he nearly died as she lowered her head, her lovely long neck so perfect. So naked to his touch.

Christine stood there, her eyes closed and still clasping the hair beside her neck. She nearly trembled when the necklace slid across the skin of her throat as he took the ends and moved behind her. Each movement slid the chain across her skin. But as he fumbled with the clasp at the base if her neck, she suddenly felt his fingers brush across the skin. A shudder ran through her body. A breath caught in her throat. He must have felt it too, but he did not say anything. She could not bear to hear his heavenly voice right now, for fear of losing herself to something vague and shapeless in her mind.

Erik finally finished his task, but his movements seemed deliberately slow. He watched the slight movements in her neck as she trembled and nearly glided a finger along the skin, but her shudder forced him back. _I delude myself with ideas and hopes. But what a fool I am. She has looked upon the face that no one can forget. She trembles in disgust, even though she can't admit it._

He turned her around quickly, looking down upon the gift as it hung delicately from her swan-like neck and rested on her porcelain skin. Christine looked up at him, almost shyly, and noticed the strange fire in his eyes. She drew a hand up to her skin, running her fingers over the delicate chain and its jewels. Eyes of brown returned to his. She looked so beautiful in the moonlight with the glint of the diamonds upon her skin.

Erik drew his hand up, as though entranced by the vision that lay before him. His hand gently stroked her face. He could not help but notice the gentle curves revealed by the ivory nightgown, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as he touched her face, and the uncertainty in her large glistening eyes as they looked up at him for guidance. His hand curved and he brushed the knuckles of his long fingers delicately across the soft skin of her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment.

Christine stood rigidly, unsure of what to do. Erik was always sparing in his affections, but now she felt completely uncertain. His touch was so gentle, and she felt as though she would drown in this moment. But he stood there for what seemed an eternity, running his fingers along her jaw. His thumb grazed her lips and she found his gaze had suddenly fallen upon them. His attention was riveted by them. A thumb brushed across her lower lip with the softest of touches. The eyes of a madman were gone. But now, she saw that they were transfixed, utterly spellbound.

He was so close that she could feel his breath upon her skin. Her mind ached for something she could not put into words. But he continued to stroke her face, and gaze upon it as though a spell had befallen him.

She suddenly felt his other hand upon her shoulder. Through the thin fabric of her nightgown, she could feel the heat of his touch, and where the neckline ended, one finger lay across her naked skin. A tremble ran through her body.

"Are you cold?" he asked softly, his voice husky.

"Yes," she murmured.

He suddenly pulled his gaze away from her lips and regarded her with clarity. Her eyes were filled with fear, her chest heaved with breath, and her heart beat mercilessly. Erik drew away from her hastily.

"Go, Christine," he ordered her gently. "Go to bed." And when she vanished like some glorious vision behind her door, he added softly, "my love."

* * *

**InThisLabyrinth** - Thank you for the kind words! And yes, Beauty and Beast has been in my mind while writing this too. Not so much The Village anymore. That was more predominant in the beginning with the setting of the town. But beyond that, it had little to do with the story. And as you can relate to Christine at 13, I feel I can still relate to her at 26. : )

**Amita** - Oh trust me. There will be plenty of fluff moments ahead. That and angst.

**Lotte Rose 37 **- Yes, I was thinking about when I would do the big reveal for a while. And when you brought it up, I thought, hey, why not now. I didn't want to make the story too depressing and leave you all hanging with a big Christmas frown, so I ended on a romantic note.

**Voldivoice **- Smoochies will come eventually. I like to build things up slowly. . .tortuously slowly. But oh there will be lots of tension.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N - Sorry for the 'long' wait. Speaking of long waits, I've found that when fics aren't updated for a month, or months on end, I lose interest very quickly. I mean, what's the point of even writing then? The holidays were understandably busy, so here is a longer chapter for your reading pleasure. **

**Chapter 15**

He had told her to leave. But it was not because she was cold. It was not because he had grown tired to her. He had sent her back to her room because of the overwhelming desire that had coursed through his veins. A desire so potent, so foreign to him, that he was afraid that for once in his life, he would not be able to rein in this particular need. Many had died at his hands in the Persian courts. The blood still stained his hands, even though others could not see, and he could see its mark every day. He had always been in control of every aspect of his life. Erik had lived throughout the world and had accumulated more knowledge then most people. He had never felt the desire for a woman like he did now. He had thought himself triumphant having not felt the tight grip of love and lust. He had been immune, or so he thought. But now, more then ever, he felt the illusions of his power start to crumble from their foundations.

When she had stood there in the moonlight, the blue sheen of light draped across her soft skin, looking up at him with those uncertain, large eyes, he felt he could no longer tame the beast within. If she had stood there a moment longer, he could not imagine what would have happened. _Oh God,_ he cried inwardly, _why must I now be cursed with this? I have lived for so long without ever needing it. Needing anyone. Needing her! I cannot bear it!_ He sunk his anguished head down upon his arms, which lay motionless upon the keys of his piano. Hands tensed with primitive hunger.

If she could see what thoughts raced through his mind every time she passed by him, she would not give her pleasantries so easily. Surely, she would coil back in shock and accuse him of being the monster that so many others had named him. But even now, her memory tortured his waking thoughts. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. He could see her even now, stretched out amongst the sheets of her bed, her breast rising and falling with each breath. The twist of her limbs in the sheets. Those parted, soft lips murmuring in fevered dream. Her hands, so slender and delicate, gripping the sheets as she moved about restlessly.

If only she knew the thoughts he had. Perhaps she would not desire his company so easily.

He had told her to go, because he knew he could no longer restrain the emotions that bubbled so close to the surface. As he had gripped her shoulder, feeling the naked skin beneath his fingers, his first instinct was to rip the fabric from her shoulder. But he used everything he had to restrain the violent action. The innocence in her eyes, the fear, was what helped restrain him. He refused to become the monster that so many had come to know. He refused to bend her will with his voice or use his potions devised during his position as court magician. There, he realized, was a lamb standing before the threshold to the lion's den. She was more dear to him then anyone had ever been before. He would not use her like the shah used the young girls of his harem. He would not dissolve the shaky trust that had been so carefully created.

_But, oh, her lips. If I could have had one kiss of her soft lips, would it have quelled this torrent of emotion? Would it have satiated this desire?_ He felts his fist clench upon the keys and with a loud curse, brought his hand down upon the keys with a loud reverberation of notes. He still lay there, hunched over the keyboard, his breaths coming quickly and dangerously. The demon refused to be silenced.

He rifled through the sheets of music that lay scattered about the room. _There it is, _he smiled darkly. His new opera. The one that had driven his mind for the last couple of years. It had been his only sanity. In this, he could drown himself in the dark notes and purge any murderous thoughts that coursed through his mind.

And so he lifted his graceful hands above the keys, poised like some great magician ready to recite the spell that would bring all things to an end. His fingers connected loudly with the keys and proceeded through the long piece that had finally been written. It was to be the soaring climax to the whole opera. Darker and more primitive in its sound then anything before it. But there was a complexity to it, a genius that pulled the listener in like a moth to the flame.

She heard every note. Every note of his song drifted through the door. Sleep would not come to her. She lay in her bed, her head bent towards the door as she listened to the strange song that surged from beyond her room. Never had she heard a song like that before. It was so powerful. A steady rhythm seemed to follow the notes, and it pulsed, nearly matching the throbbing of her heart. The song built up, layer upon layer, and she felt her fingers gripping the sheets. _I will lose myself in it_, she thought. One could not escape the music. There was so much anger in it, so much frustration, and yet, more passion filled it then anything else.

Her breaths had begun to quicken, her heard raced, and she could not endure it much longer. Christine slipped out of bed and stumbled to her door, the hem of her nightgown skimming the carpets. She paused beside the door, resting her body upon the frame, and felt her hand reach up against it, pulling tightly into a fist. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry out in some nameless emotion. The song, so powerful, almost seemed to entrance her physically. She could almost feel hands, _his_ hands, upon her skin.

The song continued to ebb and flow. It wormed its way into her mind and refused to loosen its grip. She felt herself sinking down against the door. Her knees were drawn up to her face and she cried out into the folds of her nightgown. _Please, stop it! Please, do you not see how you're torturing me? I cannot endure tbis! I am at your mercy. Please!_

And then she heard the music grow quieter. Her heart slowed its relentless march. Her skin, once cold from the chilled air, was now hot and she could feel perspiration on her forehead. Breaths that threatened to drive her into a fit now began to shallow.

Now the music took on an entirely different quality. Gone were the dark throes of passion. Now a quiet melody permeated the air, and Christine strained to hear its gentle notes. The song before had been so alien, so alarming. . .so frightening. But now, she felt at peace as she heard him play this new melody. It comforted her and made her feel safe. She brushed away the moisture on her cheeks and pressed her ear against the door again. Now, the song began to sadden. Its gentle notes grew sorrowful before becoming so mute, that they disappeared altogether.

Quiet filled the air. Nothing could be heard now. The only sound was that of her breaths, slow and steady.

_Why did he play that way? _She had never heard him play such a piece of music before. The last strains of the song had been so saddening, so anguished, that she felt the feeling fill her own heart. She lay there for nearly an hour, her body quaking with emotion. She could not bear returning to her bed. For with all of the sadness of the song, she felt a tremendous loneliness fill her heart.

She longed to hear the gentle assurances that he was capable of giving. She longed, most of all, to feel his strong arms around her, keeping her safe and driving away the demons of the night.

Christine staggered out the door to find a darkened hallway. All of the candles had been extinguished in the music room. She hesitated as she reached the winding staircase. But her legs carried her up without further thought. She found the door to his room shut. Christine fell against the wall beside it and felt her body sinking to the floor._ For once, I truly wish he were here to hold me. I cannot bear his absence!_

She fell into a fevered sleep, her slender body sprawled beside his door and her hair trailing over her shoulders.

* * *

It was early morning, just before the sun was about to rise, when she suddenly felt gentle hands pulling her body up from the floor. Christine awoke, glancing up as Erik loomed over her. A frown was on his face as he lifted her body into his arms.

"Why were you sleeping on the floor?" he asked quietly.

"I could not sleep," she replied groggily. "Your music. . .I heard it."

Erik looked down upon her, almost sadly, and brushed back a lock of hair that clung to her clammy skin.

"I could not bear it," she wept, burying her face unabashedly against his chest.

He could feel her body tremble in his arms. But as he gathered her closer to him, she calmed. Her hand reached up to grip his shirt at the shoulder as though she was fearful he would put her down.

"But why were you at my door?" asked, his voice so low and soft in her ear that she felt her defenses begin to drop.

She quaked again in his arms before she raised her head and looked up at him with that lovely porcelain face.

"I needed you," she almost whispered. "I do not know why, but I needed you. I felt like I would die if you did not hold me."

"Christine," he said her name so gently.

"Why are you doing this?" she sobbed. "Why do you haunt my every dream?"

"I love you," he said suddenly.

She looked up at him with her tear-stained face and trembled at the way his eyes had suddenly locked onto hers. _Did he really say that? What do I do now? Oh father, what do I do now? _Christine pressed her face against his chest again. She looked so small in his arms.

"I will take you back to your room," he said softly.

"No," she suddenly blurted, and then more softly continued, "please, don't leave."

Erik carried her to the music room, knowing of no other place that he could calm her. He lowered her onto a small couch and proceeded to sit down at the piano. She watched him with wide, lucid eyes, as he stretched his fingers out over the keyboard.

"What did you play last night?" she asked, sitting up on the couch and regarding him with a cautious glance.

He looked at her now, examining her features in the light that now began to shine through the windows as morning broke. Dark circles were smudged below her eyes. Her skin was pale. Indeed she had slept very little.

"A new opera I have been working on," he replied.

"When you played it," she began, struggling to find the words, "I felt consumed."

His gaze had darkened and became the predatory gaze he had displayed on rare occasions. She sat up, wrapping the blanket around her dressing gown tightly to avoid the impenetrable gaze that had fallen upon her.

"So you should," he muttered under his breath.

"Why did you play it?" she asked, her haunted expression still held by his gaze.

He ignored her question and began to play. Not the piece he had forced out from his soul the night before, but a piece more subtle in its frustration.

"Will you not answer me?" she asked, trying to raise her voice above the music. But he was completely engrossed in it. His body swayed ever so slightly to the music.

But above the music, above the alluring notes, Christine heard the sound of a knock upon the door. She fled from her chair, rushed to her room to grab a robe, and hurried to the front door. She opened it only enough to peer out at the figure standing there.

"Raoul?" she asked, her voice a mixture of joy and surprise.

Immediately, the song had ceased and a strange quiet filled the house.

"Mademoiselle," he bowed briefly, before returning his gaze to the young disheveled woman who peered out the door. "Did I come at a bad time?"

"N-no," she stuttered, suddenly remembering her appearance. She tried to brush back the unruly curls and knew it was futile.

"I came to see if you would like to accompany me out for the day. I was hoping you would join me for tea at my estate," he said.

Her eyes lit up for a moment. But she pondered the offer carefully. _Should I dare leave him behind? Will he grow angry? _But she was tired of his silence. She was tired of her loneliness. What would it hurt to spend the afternoon out with someone mildly entertaining?

"I would love to," she replied, "but if you could spare me a moment, I will prepare myself."

"Of course," he smiled.

She opened the door and admitted him, guiding him towards the parlor to wait. Christine rushed off to her room and busied herself getting ready.

Just as she closed the door and was about to open the wardrobe and select a gown, a hand closed around her wrist.

"What do you think you're doing?" she heard Erik's voice boom.

She turned to find him looming over her, his green eyes flashing more fearsome then she had seen before. _How dare he! How dare he enter my room uninvited!_ She drew away from him, slapping away the hand that clung to her wrist.

"I'm going out for the day," she responded, opening her wardrobe and pulling out a lovely green gown. She spread it out on her bed before he grabbed her again.

"And you think you can just take off whenever the feeling compels you?" he asked, turning her around and pressing her painfully against the wall.

Christine glanced up at him with her large brown eyes, now showing a defiance that he had never seen before.

"I'm tired of being lonely. I'm tired of being locked in this house with you to torment me. I'm tired of your games. I'm tired!" she cried out.

Erik's breathing was harsh. But he drew his hand up alongside of her face. A pained expression filled his face as he watched her shut her eyes tightly, as though he meant to harm her. She bit her lip, waiting for the reprisal. But it never came. Instead, she felt his gentle touch along her face. His hand caressed the soft skin of her face and did not hesitate to stroke her lips. Erik felt her tremble beneath him. Her body was still awkwardly pressed back against the wall. He moved back slightly, allowing her to straighten up, but continued to stroke her.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment. She felt his breath upon her skin as he drew closer. It burned her cheek. A soft, whimper of a cry escaped her throat as his other hand was drawn up to cup her face. She could feel how close he was now, even without opening her eyes. So close, she could almost feel his skin touching hers. And then, without hesitation, she felt his lips brush softly against hers. She could not move. Her mind screamed out, but she felt her heart begin to throb relentlessly. He continued to brush his strikingly soft lips upon hers. A shudder wracked her body. Her eyes flew open and she regarded the man she had come to know as her teacher and her guardian. His eyes were open and he had pulled back to regard her.

"Please," she cried softly, raising her fingers to drift across her lips, "don't ever do that again."

He looked hurt for a brief moment.

"Are you still afraid of me, Christine?" he asked gently.

"If you touch me like that again, I will die," she responded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Erik drifted back into the darkness of the room, fleeing through the mirror that lay against her wall. Only when she knew she was alone, Christine quickly changed into the gown behind the dressing screen. She could not hide the tremor that ran through her every time she drew her hand across her lips.

_Was I too cruel to him? Were my words too hurtful? It is only because I fear him, but not in the way that he thinks. I do not fear his face, nor do I fear his anger as I once did. I fear the way he looks at me, for none other has looked at me like that before. I fear that I might drown in his gaze. That he will utterly consume my soul if I give in. I am on a precipice, my feet lingering on the edge, and I fear to jump. I'm afraid of what's to come. Is this love? Do I love this man? He does not realize what power he holds over me. Or perhaps he does. He has seen so much of the world and I am but a child. What does he want of me? I don't know anymore. I cannot endure this much longer. I need to get out of here. I need time to think._

_

* * *

_

"I'm ready," she said simply, watching as the young man rose from his chair and looked upon her for a moment.

"Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "I have a sleigh waiting outside to take us back."

She smiled faintly, linking arms with him as he offered, and strode out the door dressed in her winter clothing.

As she glanced back quickly before the door shut, she could see _him_ leaning against the wall of the now vacant parlor. A scowl was upon his face and it was enough to stoke the fear within her. _Indeed, he is angry._

They spent the afternoon riding through the snow to the De Chagny estate. It was a two hour ride to the north, beyond the expanse of trees. But when the trees finally parted and they had ridden for quite some time beyond, Christine was pleasantly surprised to find a vast estate with extensive land and well-manicured trees and shrubbery. _It must be beautiful in the spring_, she thought. She no longer felt the claustrophobic feeling of the forest. There was civilization here, and undoubtedly, they were fairly close to the city. Paris could not be too far away.

They took tea together in his parlor and sat in a lingering silence before the young Vicomte attempted to raise the spirits of his guest.

"Has your benefactor returned since my visit?" he asked.

Christine returned her attention to him, having found it had wandered for quite some time. She smiled pleasantly and nodded. "Yes, he has."

"What is his name? I should like to meet him," Raoul continued.

Christine looked up at him nervously, fidgeting with the cup of tea in her hands. "His name is Erik. That is all I know."

Raoul looked at her with a confused expression. "You do not know his family name? His title?"

"No," she shook her head, "I don't."

Raoul stroked a finger across his chin for a moment. "You know, I do recall there being a certain reclusive noble who took up residence in a great manor nearer Paris. But I don't recall hearing if he had moved."

Christine listened to his musings with guarded skepticism.

"Conte Bellamont," Raoul added. "Yes, that was his name."

"You said he lived a reclusive life?"

"Yes," Raoul began, sitting back in his chair, "He was new to this part of the country and moved here only five years ago. But he did not attend any of the balls or other events. In fact, no one I have spoken to has ever seen the man before. But I can assure you, he does exist. I have heard that he sits upon a vast wealth of money. But what does the poor fellow do with it, if he does not entertain or move about in society?"

Christine took a slow sip of her tea as she reflected upon the young Vicomte's words. _Could Erik really be this Conte Bellamont?_

"Tell me, what is your benefactor like?"

Christine put down her cup and thought carefully. "He is. . .strange. I mean to say that he is unlike any other man I have encountered before. I would not assume him to be a noble, even though he lives with a certain degree of wealth. Of course, I have never met many nobles, only when I was small and my father performed for a few during our travels."

"Ah yes, Gustave Daae. I looked into your family history, if you will excuse me, after our last meeting. He was an exceptional violinist."

"He was," she said softly, her gaze saddening as she gazed out of the parlor windows and upon the expansive grounds of the De Chagny estate.

"You miss him very much, don't you," he said.

"Yes," she replied faintly.

Christine glanced back at him suddenly. "Raoul, I know this may seem an odd request, but is it far to the manor you spoke of? Could you take me there?"

"You wish to find out if your benefactor is Count Bellamont?" he asked, leaning forward in his chair.

"Yes," she replied.

He sat back again, stroking the bottom of his chin with his finger. "It is not far. Merely an hour or two by carriage."

She looked eagerly at him, awaiting his answer.

"Alright," he finally said, pleased to see the smile on her lovely face. "But please rest for a night or two in the guest room. I have family business to attend to in the time being. Enjoy the peace of my family's house."

Christine looked at him with uncertainty. She had told _him_ that she would only be out for the day. But she was tired of being afraid. She wanted only peace. So she gratefully accepted the invitation.

* * *

They left for the manor two days later. A couple of hours into the trip, they reached the edge of the large estate of the reclusive Count Bellamont. The ride through the countryside had been relatively quick. The land was beautiful with lovely sloping hills and valleys thick with trees. The estate itself, as they approached it with hesitation, was expansive. A heavy iron gate barred the estate from the well-traveled road before it. The servant jumped down from the sleigh to open the impressive gates before resuming his post and guiding the sleigh down the tree-lined lane. The snow still clung to the branches of the trees.

Christine gasped when she saw the great manor ahead. It loomed beyond the line of trees like some grand relic of greater times. The lane before it curved in a circle before the doors of the house.

When the sleigh drew to a halt before the doors, Raoul helped Christine down and stood by, admiring the property. She drew away from the sleigh, gazing up at the house in a quiet awe as she pulled back her hood. With a strange determination, she mounted the steps and drew her hand upon the large wooden doors, before knocking bravely upon them.

Judging by the quiet that seemed to settle over the area, Christine did not expect to hear a reply. But the doors finally opened before her and a servant peered out with a suspicious glance.

"Yes?" he asked.

"I am sorry to bother you, but could you tell me if Count Bellamont is at home?" she asked graciously.

"I am sorry, Mademoiselle, but he is not," the older man replied, casting a quick glance behind her at Raoul.

"Do you expect him back soon?" she continued.

"No," he replied curtly.

"I was wondering if. . ."

"Who is there?" a voice asked in the background.

"A visitor, sir," he replied.

"Christine Daae," she added.

"A Mademoiselle Christine Daae," the servant added, casting his voice over his shoulder.

Suddenly, another face appeared in the doorway. But the man was quite different from what she had expected. He appeared foreign, Christine was quite sure of that. He was darker in complexion then any of the native French and his voice was thick with a strange accent, although his spoken French was to be commended. The man's jade eyes were the most surprising. They fell upon her for a moment, as though lost in unspoken questions. The man was dressed in a dark grey suit and appeared to be holding an opened book in his left hand.

"I am sorry, Mademoiselle," he said to her, waving the servant away, "what is it you were inquiring about?"

"Are you Count Bellamont?" Christine asked, hesitation quite evident in her voice.

The man chuckled for a moment, the laugh becoming a deep, pleasant sound. "Of course not. I am only. . .a friend. My name is Nadir Khan."

"I am terribly sorry to bother you, Monsieur Khan, but I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions. I think I may know the Count as well."

"Please," he finally said, sweeping a gracious hand past the door, "come in. There is a chill in the air and I do not wish to make such a lovely young woman sick. Will your young gentlemen come as well?"

Raoul had finally approached the pair and smiled. "Vicomte Raoul De Chagny," he introduced himself, bowing briefly before the foreign man.

They entered the large foyer of the house and glanced around in awe at its vast cathedral ceilings and luxuriously furnished rooms. Nadir led them down the hall and into a sizeable parlor where he indicated for them to be seated.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur Khan, but I was wondering if I may speak with you in private," she asked softly. The man looked curiously at her for a moment before nodding.

"Raoul, forgive me, but I must speak with him alone," she added, looking back at her companion.

"Of course," he smiled, gazing about the room and examining its contents.

Nadir led her from the room and down the hall to another room, this one smaller then the last, but meant as a study, she surmised.

He pulled out a chair for her and she smiled before sitting down. Nadir took a seat before her and gazed at her inquisitively.

"Now, my dear, what is it you wish to know?" he asked, his jade eyes fixed keenly upon her.

"Forgive me for the strange request. I think. . .I may already know your friend, Count Bellamont, but I do not know for certain."

"Oh?"

"I have resided at an estate in the forest to the south for several months. My. . .benefactor. . .has not given me his full name. You see, I was orphaned and had no other place to go," she explained, not wanting to reveal too many details. "The man I know found me and took me in. I only know his first name."

Nadir, now utterly compelled by the story, listened in silence.

"Erik," she uttered, watching his face for a response.

"Hmm," he said, sitting back in his chair. He seemed lost in thought for a while before finally casting his strange eyes upon her again.

"You say he took you in. Living alone with a man for that length of time is certainly questionable in this country. Are you alright?"

"Yes," she blushed. "He has taught me to sing and has provided for me when I had no one else."

"Christine," he said in a tone nearing warning, "I must advise you to be careful."

"Why?"

"The man you speak of is indeed my. . .friend," he replied. "I have known him for many years since he once came to my homeland. But. . .he is a dangerous man."

"I don't understand," she said, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

"The man you have come to know once worked in the royals courts of my country. He was once a royal assassin. He was responsible for the deaths of many men."

There was a long silence before Christine finally regained her composure. "How many?" she asked, her voice so faint it could hardly be heard.

"I do not know," he replied, looking at her with concern in his eyes. He watched as she drew a hand up to her forehead as though trying to relieve a mild headache. "I do not wish to alarm you, my dear. I do not believe he would harm a young lady such as yourself. He has shown compassion before and swore never to harm a woman. But I must warn you about his anger. He can become quite passionate at times. It is when he is enraged when I would keep my distance."

"I am sorry, Monsieur," she stopped him, thoroughly disturbed, "but you said you were his friend and now you warn me about him in this way?"

"He spared my life and did more service to my family then you can imagine. I am indebted to him. But I do know that he can be dangerous. I will not lie."

Christine nodded as he recounted his story.

"Are you sure he has not harmed you?" Nadir asked with a suspicious glance.

"No," she said softly, "I have seen his anger on rare occasions. But he is. . .restrained. He has been very generous to me even though I have nothing to repay his kindness and his instruction."

"My dear," he suddenly asked, as though stumbling upon a revelation, "do you love this man?"

She looked back at him with a glance akin to that of a frightened child. "I do not know," she whispered.

"You have not seen his face?"

"I have," she said suddenly. Nadir watched her quietly. _Amazing_, he thought,_ she claims to have seen the horror of his face and yet she hesitates over my first question. _

"How did it happen?" she asked.

"He was born that way," Nadir replied, matter-of-factly. "His mother cast him away as a child and he ran away from home. Then he spent years wandering the world until I met him in Persia. He has never grown accustomed to companionship. Never wanted to live amongst anyone else. I do not blame him. . .the stories he has told," Nadir's voice drifted and he shook his head.

Christine felt a strange, unconscious trust of this man. She had never confided in anyone before except Sister Catherine.

"I am afraid of him," she began softly, watching as Nadir's parental gaze drifted to hers again. "Every time he looks at me, I fear him. But I have never felt more protected, more nurtured by anyone else, save my late father."

"Again, I ask you my dear," Nadir said, leaning forward to take her trembling hand in his. "Do you love him?"

"Yes," she said, fighting back the emotions harshly.

A strange expression filled the Persian's face – a mixture of relief and amazement.

"And what of the young gentleman who accompanied you here?"

"He is nice and has treated me with only kindness and courtesy. I have not known him for long, though. He is handsome. . ."

"Do you feel anything for this young Vicomte?"

"Perhaps a friendship. But I feel safe when I am with him. I already can tell his temperament, and it reassures me. There is no conflict in him. . .only peace," Christine reflected.

After an hour spent in deep conversation, Christine finally emerged from the office with Nadir walking pensively behind her. Raoul rose as she entered the parlor.

"I trust you found the answers you were looking for," he said, smiling candidly.

"Yes, Raoul," she said, "I wish to thank you for going out of your way to bring me here."

He bowed humbly. "It was my honor."

They made their way to the door. Raoul stepped outside after a brief exchange of farewells with the mysterious houseguest. Christine paused in the doorway to pull up her hood and slip on her gloves. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder at Nadir. He gazed at her with a strange communion of thoughts and nodded.

"Until we meet again, Mademoiselle," he bowed humbly.

The pair made their way back to Raoul's estate in silence. The sleigh glided across the snow and Raoul finally grew tired of the quiet that plagued their return.

"Christine," he said softly, "I know we know very little of each other. But I feel that we have always known each other. I fear for your safety. I do not understand the arrangement that this Count Bellamont has made for you. But. . .I would like to invite you to stay at my estate if you wish it. My brother is very accommodating and you could stay purely as any respected guest would."

Christine glanced over at him and smiled. "Your offer is most kind," she replied, "but I need to return."

"You do not owe this man anything, Christine," he seemed to warn her.

"I know," she lied. _But I do owe him_, she thought silently.

"If you are ever in need of my help, do not hesitate to call on me," he said gently.

They continued the ride silence. The sleigh diverted to the south and found the road that led from a small town and into the forest. _Perhaps it was there that he bought his supplies_, she mused. Before she knew it, they had arrived before the quiet manor. Never before had it seemed so claustrophobic, hidden amongst the trees like some ancient ruin. She shuddered as the sleigh pulled to a halt.

Warm hands clasped hers and she turned to regard Raoul. He smiled at her reassuringly. "Christine," I do not wish to cause you any further distress. "But before you go, I only wish to offer you something. Perhaps a life that is free of uncertainty and sadness, as I see it in your eyes all of the time. Christine, this may be abrupt and too soon, but I would gratefully take your hand in marriage if you would allow it. You would not have to look back on this place again."

She had never expected to hear such a declaration, especially from a man of his ranking. But she was stunned, and a familiar fear rose up within her.

"I'm sorry, Raoul," she said softly, "I appreciate your offer, but I cannot give you an answer yet."

"I understand," he said, glancing at her softly, "think on it. I do not wish to rush you."

He bent over and placed a gentle kiss upon her lips, a move that she had not expected. She smiled shyly as he pulled away and regarded her for a moment with affection. Finally, he slid off from the sleigh and helped her down into the snow. She hurried to the door with a quick goodbye and watched as the sleigh drifted off down the road before she laid her trembling hands upon the door.

_Oh God,_ she cried inwardly, _I am so confused! What path should I choose? My future is so clouded now. _

She opened the door quickly and hurried inside. Christine removed the heavy cloak from her shoulders and slipped the gloves from her hands. As she was unlacing her boots, she felt a shadow move across the floor. Her eyes widened for a moment, and she dared not straighten up for what horror met her late arrival.

But she had to. She had to face _him_. It was inevitable. Christine rose up after having removed the snow caked boots and her gaze drifted upwards to find Erik standing before her. She could see it in his eyes. The rage. The horrible rage that she seemed to cause too often.

"You are late," he said gravely, his voice dangerously low.

She trembled where she stood. _What can I say that will not increase his anger? What can I say?_

"Forgive me," she murmured, her gaze falling to the floor. "I was invited to stay with the De Chagny family for a couple of days. I did not wish to worry you."

He noticed how she trembled, how her slender body shook was such unimaginable fear before him.

"Now you betray me," he continued, seemingly ignoring her explanation, "for I see that the boy has made you an offer."

The anger, for the time being, was carefully harnessed behind his cold exterior. But it bubbled with such ferocity, that it threatened to explode at any moment.

"He did," she replied truthfully. "He offered to take care of me and let me live a life of peace, free of fear or reprisal."

"And did you accept his offer, Christine?" Erik asked, his voice seething.

She quaked, her gaze still upon the floor like a guilty servant. "I will think on his offer."

That was the breaking point. Thoroughly enraged, Erik pulled away from her, pulling an oil-lamp from a table and smashing it against the wall. Christine winced at the action, drawing away from him in fear. But he began to advance on her and she suddenly found herself against a wall, trapped, and unable to escape.

"Please," she wept. "Don't hurt me!"

He continued to advance, but his steps grew slower before he stopped mere inches from her.

A hand to her throat and she felt it encircle the delicate skin. Trembling and unable to contain her fear any longer, Christine's gaze finally drew up to his face and she drowned herself in his intense eyes.

"Monsieur Nadir Khan advised me to be careful. He said you are a dangerous man. You have killed many people. Are you going to kill me too?"

Suddenly, his composure slipped away in that brief moment. His hand lay frozen upon her neck.

She continued her argument, stifling her fear behind her wavering eyes. "Do you know why I went to see him? Do you know why I ran from this house? Do you know why I am afraid? I am afraid of you because. . .I-I love you. This love requires more of me then what Raoul offers. His is a safe affection. He only wants to keep me safe and protect me. But I fear the love I have for you. Every time you look at me, I feel as though I am drowning in it. That I will lose myself in it. It tortures me!"

Erik's hand had fallen away from her throat and dropped, defeated, by his side. He watched her in silence as she shook with such emotion that her body threatened to crumple to the floor before him.

She staggered away from him and down the hall, her footfalls echoing loudly in the halls. He stood there in shock, not able to move or even think.

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She did not know how long she had slept, but the flurry of emotion and arguments from the day before were still fresh in her mind. Christine turned over in bed and her gaze fell upon the small nightstand beside the bed. A single red rose had been placed upon it and tied with a soft black ribbon. He had come into her room again during the night.

Christine suddenly had the urge to take comfort in his arms, as though their argument had not existed, but only with a stranger. She slid out of bed and wrapped her robe about the thin nightgown. She heard no noise in the house, only the still silence that had become so familiar.

Each room she passed was empty. Nothing was there to indicate his presence. She even noted the absence of his cloak near the front door. Finally, out of desperation, she moved up the stairs at the end of the hallway and ascended to his room on the second floor. She found the door and opened it with hesitation. But the chambers beyond were silent. Not even the steady breath of someone sleeping could be heard. She trembled slightly as she moved through the darkened anteroom and into his large bedchamber. He was not here either.

_Dear God, have I driven him off with my confessions? Oh papa, I think I love this man as I have told him so, but he frightens me so. And yet, all I want right now is to feel his arms about me. It is wrong what he has done in his past, but I find myself conveniently ignoring all of that. I do not know the man who killed. I only know of the man who has taken care of me._

She found his large canopied, bed, hung with heavy drapes at the posts. There was no where else to go. No where else to take solace. Only here could she be pulled back into a somewhat comfortable sleep. Christine slipped beneath the covers and laid her head on the pillow. She could smell his scent in the sheets. The same familiar musk that intoxicated her senses now soothed her more then anything. This was not the embrace she had looked for, but it would do. Fear of him, fear of the future was now gone. There was only this temporary safety that she could fall into.

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**Lotte Rose 37 - Thank you for the very enthusiastic review. It certainly helps to encourage my writing.**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N - OK, so, I'm cranking up the fluff/angst in this chapter. I'm still trying to decide if I want to graduate this story from a T to an M. Although, this chapter is getting into the high T's. Thanks for the enthusiastic reviews. I was a little slow getting this one out, but I hope you can forgive me. Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 16**

Erik had been gone for nearly three days. Christine spent every day wandering the halls listlessly. The house was too quiet now. If it had been quiet before, now, the silence was unbearable. She had wandered from room to room, thinking about the last several months. If ever she had wanted time to think now it had been granted most generously. She longed to hear him play his music. She longed to join her voice with his. It felt as though they had not sung together in ages.

Christine sat at his piano and sadly ran her slender fingers across the keys. She imagined seeing his hands gracing the keys, running through the scales as she trained her voice. Where had her angel of music gone? He had once been a rock in her life. But now she knew he was a mortal man. She longed for his tenderness again, the way his hand would drift along her face. The way it would hesitate over her flesh. But she had only her dreams at night to feed the unspoken need. Only in them could she feel him holding her with such passion. Feel his breath as it teased the stray hairs at her temple. Feel the shudder run down her spine whenever he drew close.

_Oh that haunted face! How can I rid my memory of such a face?_ It did not frighten her. It never had. But his wild temper did. She could not understand what passions had driven his genius mind, cursed with a face that resembled an angel's chiseled and carefully sculpted visage on one side and twisted as a demonic creature on the other.

_Oh but his music!_ Never had she heard anything more beautiful, more tragic, more. . .seductive. The feelings that had coursed through her body that night when he raged on his piano began to flood back into her limbs. She felt her body slump against the wall and her hand draw up to touch the bare skin at her neck. The rhythm of the song was harsh, barbaric, but it had thrummed with a strange, foreign, primal, yet instinctive thrust. She felt her breath catch in her throat, her heart begin to pound, but most of all an incredible emptiness.

_My God, Erik. Where have you gone? Do you not know how fragile my heart is? Do you not know the power you have? You hold my heart in your hands and yet you do not realize it. I will wilt if you stay away too long. I will die. _

She could not force herself to return to her own silent room. And so she spent each night in his bed. She would dream that he was beside her, holding her in his arms, keeping her safe, and watching over her like a messenger of heaven.

It was in the middle of the night, on the third night, when he finally came. She was fast asleep, the last remnant of tears staining her porcelain face, with moonlight washing over her skin from the nearest windows. Her hair cascaded over the pillows and framed her solemn face with dark curls. She did not stir as he entered, and he was not surprised, for he had developed his own stealth over the years.

But he was surprised to find her sleeping in his bed. Erik tried in vain to tear his eyes from her body. The steady rise and fall of her breast beneath the white nightgown was nearly his undoing. She looked drained of energy. Even with her eyes closed, and her long lashes falling upon her cheek, he could see the dark circles that lined her eyes. He could hear her murmur softly in her sleep. Sometimes, he could hear her cry.

_My poor lamb, _he thought,_ I have left you unattended for too long. You wither away in my absence. I do not understand why you turned away from that boy, but it is clear that you need my protection. _

He sat down beside her, no longer afraid to stroke her soft face as she slept. _In my bed_, he noted. _You would not sleep here so soundly if you knew my thoughts. You would not rest in childlike innocence if you saw what was in my eyes this very moment. You lay in the lion's den. A lamb, my lamb, so unknowing, so innocent, so trusting, of the lion that lingers in the dark and watches. _

_But as you sleep I see you stir in dream. I see your limbs writhe beneath the covers and think darkly for a moment. Oh, the gleam in my eyes must be particularly singular tonight! I see you clutch at the pillow with your hand. A soft moan escapes your lips and the beast threatens to steal itself from the dark and capture its prey in an eternal embrace. Your lips, so soft, so swollen they seem, are parted. I hear you murmur a word, but too softly for even my keen ears to hear. I bend over your vulnerable body, leaning my ear to nearly touch your lips, and hear a word that feeds the fire in my blood._

_Erik._

_I cannot stay here a moment longer. You will not be my spotless angel for long. For I would taint you. I would make you scream my name._

_I love you too much to harm you. I love you too much to take away your innocence to feed my own desire. I have always loved you. I always will._

He left the room quickly, but only after he had laid a rose on her pillow.

The room was silent when she awoke. Christine turned in bed, almost blinded by the sunlight that shone through the narrow separation of the drapes. He was not here. She was expecting another day of silence, filled only by the pacing of her feet in the halls, or by quiet reflection in the library.

But as she turned her head, she found a rose resting on the pillow beside her. Her hand touched it so softly, as though she feared it was not real and would vanish if her fingers fell upon its fragile bloom. A soft smile tugged at her lips.

"You're awake," she heard his voice echo in the room.

She sat up abruptly, pulling the sheets up with her and glanced about warily. Beyond the ray of light, hidden in the shadows of the room, she finally found the dark figure in the corner.

"Where have you been?" she called out softly.

She heard a rustle as he straightened up and slowing approached her, still cloaked in shadow.

"I had to pay my dear friend Nadir a visit," he stated coolly.

"You. . .you did not harm him, did you?" she asked, nearly gasping.

She heard a gentle sigh. "I am a murderer in your eyes now."

She could not reply to his comment, only watch him with wide, knowing eyes, as he stood at the foot of her bed. . ._his_ bed. Beyond the shadow that fell upon his looming body, all she could see was the brilliant gleam of his eyes, and they suddenly reminded her of the predator. A wolf's eyes. Christine stirred uncomfortably beneath the sheets as he studied her for what seemed an eternity.

"Why did you come here?" he asked, his voice had become gentler.

"I was afraid," she replied quietly. "You left and I was. . .alone."

"But surely these inanimate sheets are no different then your own," he said, as though arguing his case.

Christine glanced away from him. "I felt that. . .you were closer here then in any other place. I felt safe."

"In my bed?" he added, his voice having grown husky.

"Yes," she replied. "I am a silly girl, I know."

"No," Erik said abruptly, catching her eyes with his penetrating gaze, "but you do not know what you seek. You do not know the repercussions."

She watched him warily, the sheets pulled up about her shoulders.

"Come," he said gently, extending his hand.

Christine drew her body out of the large bed and seemed to cower before him, acutely aware of her state of undress. His eyes drew over her body hungrily, taking in the long gown of thin cotton and lace - the way it fit her curves and lay upon her creamy skin. He still held her hand in his and he could feel her fingers quiver. His hand fell softly upon her face, stroking the side of it with such care that she shut her eyes under his ministrations. She pressed her cheek into his hand and even he noticed the subtle action.

"Christine," he murmured ardently.

A soft moan fell from her lips, and he found himself strangely drawn to them. Her eyes opened slowly and she looked up into his eyes. The compelling emerald eyes were now filled with a passion she could never have imagined. She tried to pull away, not realizing that his hand now secured her upper arm. She felt his breath upon her face.

"Please," she whimpered softly, looking up at him with those eyes that pleaded for his touch and cried out for mercy at the same time.

"Please what, Christine?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper as his hand lingered on her face.

A soft cry escaped her lips again as his hand at her arm wound slowly around her back, pulling her closer. She shivered in his arms.

"Why do you resist me, Christine?" he asked, almost sadly, but his desire-filled eyes never left her face.

"I'm afraid," she murmured.

"Do you abhor this face that you have seen?"

Christine shook her head softly. "It does not matter to me."

"What frightens you so?" he asked, tenderly stroking her face, and brushing an errant lock behind her ear. His finger grazed the sensitive flesh of her neck.

"Your love," she replied, glancing up at him with fearful eyes.

"I would never harm you, my love," he said.

"Then why do I feel this way around you?" she cried. "Why do I feel like I am drowning when you touch me?"

"Let go," Erik whispered in her ear. "For one moment, give in. Let me show you that you do not need to fear me."

"I. . .can't," she cried out, gripping the sleeves of his arms with her slender fingers.

But she could not fight him. She could not force her body away from his. As his mouth descended upon hers, she felt the fear again, but it seemed to wash away with each caress of his lips upon hers. When his arms tightened around her body, drawing her into the protective embrace of his, she surrendered. She found that the strength had left her body, and she was falling against his for support. But his strong arms, now winding tightly around her lower back, held her firmly to him. His lips moved slowly upon hers at first, unsure and hesitant. But with each soft cry from her, with each loosening of her grip upon his shoulders, Erik found his kiss growing stronger. A starved man for years, he could not control the passion that flooded his mind. She felt her lips part of their own accord and felt his kiss deepen. His tongue drew across her lower lip and finally entered her mouth. She had plummeted over the edge of the precipice that she had stood upon for so long. Now, there was only the hungry, demanding kiss he wrought upon her lips.

She felt his lips leave hers and moaned softly in protest, but they traveled across her cheek and down her neck. Erik pulled her tightly to him, almost roughly, as he ravaged her neck. Christine gasped, feeling the gentle nip of his teeth upon the bare flesh at the curve of her neck. His hands tightened upon her, gripping the fabric of her thin nightgown with a strange urgency. She felt her body pulled again towards him. Her body, now flush against his, and suddenly feeling so vulnerable, seemed to throb. But as he gripped her tightly, his mouth roaming across her neck, she felt his desire and cried out softly. Pressed so tightly against her stomach, she could feel the passion, a passion she had never felt before, and tensed.

He moved away from her neck, the desire still clouding his brilliant green eyes. Her lips were still swollen from his kisses. But her neck, now red from his hungered passion, seemed to burn angrily before him. Her eyes were clouded as well, although glistening with a strange emotion. She looked so helpless in his arms. His ardor was more then she had expected. _Idiot! You fool! You're like a hungry animal with its prey. Look at the fear in her eyes. You have forced yourself upon her, upon this innocent girl, without any regard for her. You are just an animal to her. Look at how she looks at you right now. Disgusted, obviously. You loathsome animal. . .caring for nothing but your desire to take her, to make her scream, to make her yours! _

He pulled away from her abruptly and she nearly collapsed as the support of his arms left her.

"Forgive me," he uttered, raking a hand through his dark hair.

Christine stood there, quivering in the thin ray of light that fled the curtains. Her shoulders shook with emotion, her hand drew up to her neck, stroking the reddened skin, and her eyes wavered upon his.

"Go," he said softly.

Erik watched as she turned, almost not knowing what action to take next, and left the room. His hand drew up to the bedpost and he leaned heavily against it, sighing deeply. _Now I know why the shah kept his harem. This lust was such a mystery to me, but now I have come to understand it. Why must I now be tortured with this knowledge? Why must I know desire? Why must I crave her body like nothing else? She knows nothing of this. She is a child in the world's eyes. She has not seen what I have seen. But now I move to thrust her into the role of a harem girl, wide eyed and innocent. She looks to me to guide her. I am disgusting! _

_But does she feel what I feel? Does she yearn for my touch as I yearn for hers? Does she feel the same stirring in her body?_

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It was late afternoon when he finally emerged from wherever he had hidden himself. Christine sat in the study, amusing herself with books and trying to rid her mind of the events from the morning. But when Erik entered the room, leaning heavily against the doorframe and watching her quietly as she read, Christine could not help but lose her focus completely.

"Forgive me for my forwardness," he said coolly, every word stated as formally as possible. This was the voice of her teacher, her maestro, and her mentor.

She nodded gently at him, shifting her eyes away and watching the wayward sun dropping closer to the horizon.

"Tell me," she began softly, trying to encourage a conversation, "why did you not tell me that you are Count Bellamont?"

Erik sighed, moving from his position at the door to seat himself at a safe distance from her, in one of the two armchairs. His suit jacket was gone and instead, he wore a dark waist coat over his white dress shirt. A dark cravat was tied at his throat. In the waning light of the late afternoon, he looked quite striking. Christine struggled to pull her eyes from her quiet examination.

He rested his brow in his hand now, leaning to the side in the chair, and appeared to be relieving a headache.

"Would it have changed anything?" he uttered.

"No," she replied, "but I don't understand why you did not tell me."

"I do not care for titles. It wasn't even mine to begin with. When I returned to France, I came upon an old man one day. He was injured at the side of the road in an overturned carriage. His men were all dead. . .robbers undoubtedly assailed him. I assisted him and returned him to his home – the estate you saw. There, he learned of my musical abilities and employed me while recovering from his injuries. Count Bellamont had no heirs to speak of and before he passed, he gave his title and his wealth to me."

"And this place? Why do you live here instead?"

Erik looked away from her for a moment. "I do not care to live among the rich, much less any other human being. And when I first saw you. . ."

"Wait," she suddenly interrupted. "When did you first see me?"

He looked at her again, this time with a strange intensity. "When you were young, just after your father died, I saw you at your father's grave."

Christine's gaze drifted to him. "But I. . .I. . .why did you not reveal yourself? Did you get some sick pleasure from watching my pain?"

"No," he said firmly, moving to sit beside her. A tear coursed down her cheek and he swiftly brushed it away. "It was then that I knew I had to watch over you. . .that I had to have you at my side."

She looked at him with glistening eyes. "The lottery?"

"Yes," he answered, dropping his head for a moment in defeat.

"My God," she cried out, glancing away from him while her eyes filled with grief. "You made me leave everything that I had? You made me leave Madame Giry and Meg? I was so afraid," she whispered hoarsely. "When they took me out into the woods, I thought I would die. . .I wished for it. I was so afraid when they tied me to the tree and left me for whatever horror lived within the woods. And then you listened to me cry for hours and did nothing. Why? Why!"

Her fists were gathered at his chest. Tears were streaming down her face now. Anger choked her sobs. His hands drifted to her face again and brushed away the tears.

"Because I loved you. There was nothing before you. Only hate and despair. But when I laid eyes on you, I knew what I needed. I needed you," he answered, his voice wrought with emotion. "Forgive me."

She finally looked up at him again. Pain filled her gentle features and his heart throbbed in agony at seeing the anguish in his angel's expression. "What did you intend for me? What reason was there to be here with you? Was I to be your mistress?"

"I wanted you," he seethed, "as my wife."

She pulled away from him, angered by his words, but his hands latched onto her arms. Christine struggled in his grasp, cries of protest falling from her lips.

"I will not be your wife! You cannot force me to be your wife! I am a free person and as such, I will leave this house," she hissed.

"I will not let you go," Erik responded quietly. "I cannot."

"Yes," she shouted, "you will!"

"No, Christine," he roared in desperation. "You're mine! You belong to me!"

She looked at him in shock, ceasing her struggles as she regarded him in horror. Where was her angel? Where was the man with such tenderness in his heart? "You truly are a monster," she whispered hauntingly. "How could I have ever said I loved you?"

"Come, my dear," he said, clutching her arm as he stood. He was tired of her games. Tired of being taken for a fool every time she walked in the room.

Erik led her forcefully down the hall and to her room. She looked at him in confusion and for a moment, he wanted to brush away her tears and take her in his arms. But his anger drove him to lock her in her room. She pounded on the door in protest, but he stormed down the hall in a rage. He could hear her cries for help but dared not listen to them.

_I will make her desire me as much as I've desired her. She will burn for me._

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And so his music echoed loudly throughout the house as he pounded away on the piano. The seductive elements of the unfinished opera, Don Juan Triumphant, circulated the house like a deadly poison. Gone were any restraints he had before. Now, only the naked, visceral, and passionate melodies could be heard. They wove down the hall and beneath the door to Christine's room where she lay huddled on the floor. She wept unceasingly, but as the notes drifted through, she found her sobs begin to fade.

_No, _she cried inwardly,_ I will not be seduced by his music. I will not allow myself to be._ But it was futile. No ordinary person had ever heard such music before. It was as though heaven's gate had been laid asunder and the music that lay hidden now spilled forth with such power and fury. But this music was like none other. Perhaps it was the gates of hell that had been opened. Only something as dark as hell could produce such shocking and vulgar melodies. The music ebbed and flowed. It took hold of her body and relaxed every muscle. But the powerful throb of its tempo washed through her, willed her body to follow its movements, and took hold her mind.

Christine cried out as she slid to the floor. She could feel every note course through her body. It seemed to build an unbearable tension. Every dream of him, every thought she had of him, everything. . .was revealed simultaneously. Fingers drifted across her face, lips ravished hers, hands traveled down her body. She could feel him. Feel his passion. His desire. His lust. And now she felt it herself. She writhed on the floor, waiting for some release that never came.

But when the fury of his music ceased, she cried out, gasping for air, tormented by the end that never came. She could hear his footsteps in the hall again – loud and pronounced. She could hear him unlocking the door. Christine quickly slid away from it as it opened and Erik loomed in the doorway, all of the fury of his music displayed in his brilliant eyes.

He picked her up, jerking her by the arm, and threw her at the bed. Her body collapsed into it, and she tensed, watching as he advanced upon her. Unbridled lust was in his eyes. She was frozen, unable to move, utterly terrified, and could not even cry out when he stood over her quaking body.

His hungry eyes traveled over her body. Hands gripped the hem of her dress and hiked it up to her thighs.

"Christine," he hissed, bending over her. His lips found her neck and nipped ravenously at the tender flesh.

She moaned softly, suddenly not wanting his mouth to leave her skin. But it did. Instead, he hummed the strange operatic melody he had so mercilessly forced out upon the piano. She could feel his body move with the rhythm of the song. Hers began to move as well. Her back arched involuntarily, pushing her thighs flush against his. She could feel his desire through fabric of her dress as she was pressed tightly against him. Again, he began to torture her skin with his mouth, and his hips continued their seductive rhythm.

Christine felt her body succumbing to his movements. She felt the heat pool below her stomach and whimpered. His arousal, so foreign and terrifying to her, was not close enough. Her body thrust against his without thought.

"Tell me what you want, Christine," he growled into her ear.

When she did not answer, he jerked away from her and looked into her clear eyes. The spell was suddenly broken. For in that instant, he saw the innocent, beautiful girl that he had so painstakingly taught to sing. He saw the daughter of a poor violinist crying over her father's grave. He saw the sorrow in her eyes and remembered the feeling of her head pressed against his chest for comfort.

Erik moved away quickly and stood away from her, his hands outstretched at his sides, as though he had committed an unspeakable evil. He looked down upon her. Her chest was heaving with breath. Dark ringlets of her hair pooled around her head. Her lovely gown was torn and riding dangerously up her thighs. Fear began to replace the desire in her eyes. _The desire that I forced upon her. I raped her with my music._ Her lips trembled with emotion. He could see the tears welling in her lovely brown eyes.

Erik quickly went to the wardrobe and grabbed a new dress, a cloak, and her boots. He laid them on the bed beside her and forced himself away from her.

"Dress quickly. Leave this place," he ordered her urgently, adding, "now! Leave this monster lest he harms you."

After several moments, she stumbled to her feet and trembled as she lifted the gown from the bed. Erik left the room, shutting the door behind him. He fell against the wall in the hallway, breathing heavily. A few minutes later, she emerged from her room and did not hesitate to run down the hall, past his shaking form, and out the door. He could hear the distant neigh of a horse before the sounds disappeared altogether.

_My God, what have I done,_ he cried to himself.

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Lotte Rose 37 - Your reviews make me laugh. . .in a good way. Very cheerful. When I wrote the scene where Christine first goes to sleep in his bed, I was thinking of an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer where Buffy was feeling a little vulnerable and found Angel's bed to sleep in. Awwww.

Marie Phantom - How was kissing in this one? A little more. . .ahem. . .heated?

Morbid Flower - Glad to hear you love the story! I really appreciate your review.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N - I just wanted to say thank you for all of the wonderful reviews! I have really enjoyed reading them and they have been a big encouragement. I apologize for the long wait for this chapter. I had a severe case of writer's block and couldn't decide where I was taking this chapter. Add to that the fact that I worked all weekend, which carried into this week, leaving me little time to sit down a write. Fortunately, I have a long weekend coming up. I'm sorry in advance about this chapter. Mucho angst. But this is going somewhere. There will be brighter days.**

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**Chapter 17**

She was barely aware of where she was going. But despite the emotions that throbbed within her mind, Christine guided herself along a familiar path. She had taken Alyona, Erik's white mare, and was now gliding through the woods. The tears that had stung her face were wiped clean by the winter wind.

_What have I done? I have left him alone. I have left my teacher, my friend, my. . .no, I cannot think it right now. I have been foolish. Suddenly, I feel like I am a woman now. That I was a child only yesterday and came into awareness overnight. I am a foolish girl. But I cannot become what he wants me to be. I cannot become his wife. Not yet. I have let my impulsive feelings cloud my judgment. I do not know who I am in this world yet. I do not see my path clearly. I must know my own heart before I look into his eyes again. I must not be seduced by his power. _

She rode on with a strange glimmer of determination. Her head bent low against the long neck of her horse as they whipped through the trees. The hood of her cloak had been torn back from her head, allowing the dark curls to fly back in the wind.

_A light is ahead. A familiar light. Oh Lord, please take in your child as you did before. Grant me peace, grant me sanctuary, and grant me wisdom. _

She stood on the step, looking through the long, thin window alongside the heavy wooden door. A light drew along the hall and appeared at the door. As the door opened, a smile of relief flickered on her features.

"Sister Catherine," she cried out, collapsing at the old woman's feet.

"My child! What is wrong?" she asked, bending over with the oil-lamp and examining the exhausted girl with worried eyes.

"Please," she cried, burying her face in her hands. "Please let me stay here for awhile. Please! I don't know what to do anymore."

Catherine knelt beside her, resting the lamp on the floor and drew her hand along the girl's rich curls, brushing them away from her pale forehead. She did not look well at all. Her face was pale and her eyes drooped with fatigue. Dark circles fell upon the tender flesh beneath her chocolate eyes.

"Come child," she cooed, "we will put you to bed."

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Months passed. Winter turned to spring and the life that had hidden itself from the world's gaze began to spring forth from twig and earth. The heavy blanket of snow retreated with the coming heat and eventually disappeared altogether. Now, the forest was bursting with life. Buds of green covered the trees and the frozen water of the nearby creek began to run in a torrent of spring thaw. The birds began to return to the trees and deer were often seen timidly searching for food. 

Christine had spent the remainder of the winter with the nun. There was no other place she could think of that would take her in. Madame Giry and Meg seemed like a distant memory to her, and although they would take her in without question, Christine feared the reaction of the town if they found out she still lived. But here, out in the countryside with a lush forest just a few steps from the small rustic chapel, Christine felt more at peace in her life then she had before.

She had helped Sister Catherine unceasingly in her work and even devoted her voice to Sunday mass every week. A hard worker who never complained of the work, Christine became a daughter in the eyes of the Sister. The girl's tragic past, brought on by the death of both parents, and the strange circumstances surrounding a certain town far to the south, were enough to stoke a strong sympathy. But even more troubling were the nights of weeping. More then once, Sister Catherine could hear the soft crying coming from her door as she passed through the hall at night. There was more to the girl's story then what she already knew. Catherine surmised that much had to do with the strange benefactor that Christine had spoken of during her last stay. Of the man whom she once believed to be an angel.

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"Why do you cry?" a gentle voice sounded. 

Christine turned quickly from her small window and glanced back at Sister Catherine, who stood silhouetted in her doorway.

"I hear it," the old woman said solemnly, "every night."

Christine sat down on the edge of her modest cot and twined her fingers in the quilt. Her gaze drifted across the room and fell upon the wall, haunted and resigned. "I am sorry if it wakes you," she answered softly.

Catherine entered the room, adjusting the skirt of her habit before sitting beside the girl. "You ran away again. Why?"

"I-I don't know," the girl responded shaking her head.

"Yes you do," the nun insisted. "You must tell me why."

"Why must everyone know what it is in my heart and mind? Why can I not keep my thoughts private?" Christine argued, her voice rising in emotion.

"It is not healthy to bottle up one's feelings. You will only lead yourself to destruction."

"Sometimes I wish for that," she uttered lowly beneath her breath.

"Child!" Catherine cried out. "Never say such words again."

They sat in silence for a while before Christine moved to break it.

"I love him, Sister," she said softly.

"I know," she replied, smiling at the young woman.

"But there is more to it then that, or perhaps less," Christine said wistfully.

"What do you mean?"

"I feel for him what I have felt for no other before. I relish his presence, and yet he so often turns away from me. When he is in one of his darker moods, he pushes away any notions of love, of tenderness, and seems filled with. . ." she paused, glancing away embarrassedly.

"With?"

"Lust," she finally said.

An awkward silence ensued.

"I fear him when he looks at me like that. But I cannot deny the dreams I have of him at night," Christine's gaze drifted beyond the window in reflection. She glanced back at the older woman with a strange clarity in her eyes. "You see, I cannot escape him, even in my sleep he is there. Why must he haunt me like this? Why must he torment me?"

"I do not need to speak to you of the sins," Catherine began, reading Christine's gentle nod as acknowledgement of her words. "Love is pure. Love is good. If he does not love you, you should not torment yourself with such thoughts. You should not doubt departing from his house."

"He made me leave," the younger woman suddenly said. "I thought I would never be able to free myself from his power. But he told me to leave. What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Catherine replied.

"I love him," Christine wept. "He told me that once too. But I don't know if his words were real. He has sought after me for so long. But perhaps he only covets me. I am a prize to be won and owned. But am I to be truly loved? Will I ever be loved like that?"

"Only God knows, child. But He loves you more then any mortal can," Catherine replied, stroking Christine's hair affectionately before lifting herself from the bed.

"There were times though. Times when he would touch my face with such tenderness. I thought then that I was truly loved. But I-I just don't know anymore," Christine said.

"Give it time, Christine. Stay here and pursue a righteous life in the eyes of God. Learn of where your heart lies."

* * *

Every trace of winter had been wiped away with the arrival and presence of warmer weather. The air was pleasant and fragrant with late spring. But as the weather grew fairer and the meadow greener, Christine longed for a change in the quiet life she had adopted. It was especially at night when such thoughts pervaded her mind. She still woke up on occasion, crying in her sleep, suddenly feeling empty. Her skin burned from the touch that only her dreams brought to her. It took all she had to not scream his name when she woke from a dream, her skin damp with sweat, and her chest heaving. 

But she had succeeded in taming her thoughts during the day. Most often, when she felt troubled, she could be found kneeling in the small chapel in prayer. A single candle would be lit for her father, and the small crucifix would hang obediently from her long neck.

She prayed for contentment. She prayed for her thoughts not to stray to selfish things. All that she wanted was a good life. But silently, without admitting it in her prayers, she wished for a love that seemed so far away now. So she prayed for _his_ wellbeing – that he too could find contentment in his life.

"Christine, I am going to the market today. Would you like to accompany me?"

Christine glanced up from the small book she cradled in her hands and smiled briefly at Sister Catherine. "I would like that."

There was a small, modest carriage kept at the chapel for use by both nun and priest. Christine climbed into it, seating herself beside the nun, and adjusted the small bonnet on her head. She wore a light spring cloak about her shoulders, over a modest blue gown. Unfortunately, she had no money to bring with her. But she was accustomed to not having much. Her and her father had lived a simple life and had depended on the generosity of others. Still, Christine wished she could accumulate her own wealth instead of relying on charity. For that reason, her trip to the small town just north of the chapel was in search of work. Perhaps she could find a job as a seamstress – Sister Catherine had taught her much over the course of the last few months. There were also usually positions for servants.

They were wandering the marketplace of the town, gathering food and other necessities for the next several weeks, when Christine came upon a small poster outside of a shop.

_Employment required. Inquire within._

Curious, Christine stepped into the small shop and waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting of the store. A weary looking man stood behind the counter, pouring over an open book. He looked up at the young woman as she hesitantly approached the counter.

"Good day, Monsieur," she said. "I read the sign outside. . ."

"Ah, you are interested?" he said, pointing in the direction of the door.

"What exactly is the job?" she asked.

"There is a Count Moreau just beyond the town limits. He requires servants, specifically young ladies to assist the housekeeper."

Christine thought over the offer for a moment. She really did not have much choice when it came to occupations. She had never worked for a living before. So, without further though, she nodded and replied, "Where can I apply?"

"He instructed me to take any prospective servants out to his estate personally."

"May I give you my answer in two day's time?" Christine asked

"Of course," the old man smiled. "You know where to find me."

Christine left the shop quickly, pausing outside as she winced in the bright sun. _I cannot stay at the chapel forever. I must make my own way in this world if I am to survive. _A small frown crossed her face as she stepped out into the street, carefully skirting her way around the passing carriages and wagons. Catherine appeared across the street, waving to catch Christine's attention. _I must tell her._

The ride back to the chapel was quiet. Christine did not look forward to telling the nun about her decision. She was not sure of it herself, but it was the only path she could see. Still, a thought nagged at the back of her mind. A place was still etched in her memory. She felt her heart breaking when she saw _his_ face in her mind.

"I will be leaving you in a couple of days," Christine said abruptly.

The older woman turned, still holding the reins in her wrinkled hands. "You have found work, haven't you?"

"Yes, but. . ."

"I saw you reading the posting," the old woman smiled knowingly. She watched as Christine's head lowered for a moment. "It's alright, dear. I never expected you to stay with me forever. You have your own life."

"I do," Christine said faintly.

"It is the life you have chosen for yourself," the nun continued.

"I know," she answered, gazing away sadly.

* * *

She sat in solitude for several hours before the nagging in her mind would not cease its torment. It was afternoon before she finally made up her mind. Christine rose from her seat, grabbed her cloak hanging at the door, and stole away outside. She found Alyona at the small stable and hastily readied her. Before long, she was hurrying through the woods. The naked branches that had once scraped her flesh as she had fled this very place were now covered with leaves. But she paid little attention to her lush surroundings. The only thing that mattered was this journey. 

_I am nearly there. Nearly at the house of the man I love. I don't care if he does not love the same way. I need him so badly, I would give everything to him. I would relinquish my freedom just to be in his presence again. I would fall at his feet and cling to him like a beggar. _

_There it is! The house! I can see it looming ahead just beyond the trees. It looked so dark before, but now it beckons to me like an old friend. I cannot see the smoke drifting from the chimney. Nor do I see a candle at the window. But I am nearly there! Nothing matters anymore. _

_Oh, Erik. Please, I beg of you. . .I will stay with you forever. I cannot bear to be parted from you. We are of one flesh._

But as she approached the house, her heart began to sink for some unknown reason. She jumped down from the graceful white horse and drifted slowly up the front steps like a specter. Her hood fell back upon her shoulders. Her white, slender hands fell upon the wooden door and caressed the surface with desperation. Her cheek soon followed, pressed against the surface.

Christine grabbed the door handle and eagerly pushed at it, but it did not give. She tried again. Nothing. The door was locked. It had never been locked before. The door had always been accessible. Christine stepped back and glanced through the darkened windows nearest the door. No light shone from within. She looked around anxiously, running down the step and gazing around the property. Not a sound could be heard. She rushed to the stable and swung open the large doors. No horses lived there anymore. The hay was gone, and so was all of the equipment.

A trembling, violent emotion began to rise up within her. Christine hurried from the stables and back to the house. She stood at the door again and knocked. Waiting a moment, which seemed like an eternity, she pounded again, this time her fist collided with the hard wood. Still no sound. _No!_ She fought back bitter tears. Her fist continued to beat relentlessly upon the door. No one came.

A sob began to rack her body. She fell down upon the step, feeling the trembling spread throughout her limbs. Her body shook and she bent her face into her hands. A cry sprang up from her throat. If anyone had been passing that very moment, they would have stopped and turned their ear to the horrible sound of human sorrow. It was a bitter wail. One that trembled with such strong, ferocious emotion, and sunk back into hopeless despair.

She lay there upon the cold steps until the tears that coursed down her face became exhausted and she could cry no more. _See what you have brought upon yourself? You have nothing now. No one. Once an orphan, always an orphan! _That moment, she was ready to give herself to God. She suddenly thought of Christ upon the cross and felt her outstretched arms upon the cold pavement, spread wide in surrender. She wished to die that very moment. _He_ was gone. He had been gone for a while and she had lost her chance. She had lost her angel.

But the bitter tears eventually passed and left the shell of a young woman so torn apart, that only subconscious thoughts controlled her actions. Christine lifted herself from the pavement and found the horse waiting obediently for her arrival. It seemed to bend its long slender neck in sympathy. But her eyes were devoid of emotion now. Christine climbed upon its back and clung to its neck as it took her back to the chapel.

* * *

"We are nearly there, Mademoiselle," the old shopkeeper said, glancing behind in the carriage at the young woman who gazed vacantly back at him. 

She only nodded. The man frowned slightly. Never had he seen such an expression on such a beautiful young lady before. Such sadness in her eyes! Such haunted expressions. There was a tremendous sorrow in her brown eyes, as though there was no light in the world anymore. There was nothing good. And she knew it. She felt it. A shiver ran up his spine as he guided the carriage up the long drive to the orderly estate of Count Moreau.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N - Well, you guessed right during the previous chapter about where Christine would end up - at Sister Catherine's. But I'm afraid the guesses were wrong for this chapter regarding Count Moreau. Pull out the kleenex box, you might need it. I wrote some of this chapter after watching Queen of the Damned and Dracula 2000, so you'll know what I mean later on. Yes, it was a fang fest on TV that I couldn't resist. One of my favorite books, Jane Erye, has given me a little inspiration for this story too. I wanted Christine to embark on her own for a little while and gain a little independence. Sometimes I wonder if I need to pull out a huge cartoonish hammer to convey this change in character. Anyways, I hope you enjoy - thanks for the reviews, especially by the new names that have surfaced!**

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* * *

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**Chapter 18**

"Yes, you will do," a masculine voice said.

Christine stood in the large hall of the Moreau Manor. The kindly old shopkeeper who had brought her there had quietly left after having been dismissed. The British housekeeper, Madame Elliott, stood warily by as Count Moreau carefully interviewed the newest employee. Christine's gaze fell upon the floor and strangely did not leave it. The older man circled her as though examining a horse for his stables, leaving her with an uneasy feeling.

"Have you been employed before?" he asked, his stern gaze raking across her face.

"No, Monsieur, I have not," she responded obediently, meeting his unwavering gaze with hers.

The Count was an older man, probably around the same age that her father would be if he were still alive. His hair was dark, but graying along the sides. Eyes of black stung her features like hot coals. He paused before her, frowning deeply before casting a dark glance at his housekeeper.

"She will do. I leave her to your training," Count Moreau commanded.

"Come now, mademoiselle," the ragged housekeeper said, her voice thick with the accent of her homeland.

The woman was equally as stern. Her auburn hair was pulled back severely from her face into a tight bun and her gown was dark, fitting almost a little too tightly on her thick frame. She walked ahead of the uncertain girl with a confident stride and led her through the halls to the servants' wing. After showing her briefly the tiny room that would be hers, and explaining the small, modest salary that she would accrue, Madame Elliott quickly sought out the tools of the job and put Christine to work.

* * *

The days were long and hard. The work was never easy, especially under the rough supervision of the housekeeper. Christine could see the resignation and haggardness in the other servants' faces and it provided a worrisome testament as to the working conditions. But she could not complain. She had no other way to make money. This was the only job available, and Christine would work hard. 

It was a late afternoon in May and Christine was dusting the mantle in the drawing room. The door creaked softly behind her and she whirled around to find Count Moreau standing there. He looked at her with a strange gleam in his eyes.

"Christine, is it?" he asked, advancing from his position near the door to stand beside her as she resumed her dusting.

"Yes, Monsieur," she replied, keeping her attention on the work.

But he snatched the duster from her hands and she turned to face him. A scowl twisted his features and Christine fought the urge to step back from him and further provoke his anger.

"Look at me when I am speaking to you, is that clear?" the man hissed.

She nodded fearfully and stood before him trembling, her eyes falling upon the floor.

"You may be an employee, but you are residing under my roof, and I make the rules. You will heed my instructions implicitly. Now. . .I understand that some of the silver has gone missing, as Madame Elliott informed me. Did you take it?"

Christine's gaze drifted up to his face. She looked at him with anger in her eyes. "No, Monsieur, I did not."

She felt the sting of his hand as it collided with her cheek. Christine stood there, fighting back bitter tears, and brushed a hand against the reddened flesh upon her face. His eyes burned with anger, but now there was also a look of triumph in them.

"Don't lie to me, Mademoiselle," he seethed. "I will not have it!"

"Sir, I'm telling you the truth, I did not take it," she replied calmly, not allowing him the pleasure of seeing the distress that was filling her mind.

His hand was at her neck, forcing her to her knees. She struggled in his grasp, trying to cry out, but his hand only clenched her throat tighter. "I know what you penniless servants are like. It is only natural for your kind to steal."

Moreau did not move. He gazed down at the trembling young girl with disgust in his eyes. Finally, he released his grip on her throat. Christine knelt on the floor, her chest heaving as her lungs desperately sought for air. Suddenly, she felt his hand brush alongside her face and she looked up in surprise. The disgust that was there before was gone. Now, someone much worse shone in the Count's dark eyes. She tried to move away from him, but he only latched onto her arm and prevented her from escaping. A smirk was on his thin lips. He grasped a stray lock of her hair and toyed with it.

"I know what else you poor girls are good for," he said darkly.

Christine shook with fear and the Count smiled maliciously at the movement. "Tell me, Christine," he said, his words dripping with lust, "have you been with a man before?"

She struggled from his grasp and managed to break free, scuttling to the far side of the room. Her eyes were wide with fear.

"You haven't, have you?" he taunted her. That sickly smile spread across his face again.

With that, he turned abruptly and left the room, shutting the door loudly behind him. Christine quaked for a moment, still paralyzed with the fear of what had happened, what could have happened. Her legs gave out beneath her and she dropped to the floor. A scream of fury threatened to burst past her lips, but she clenched her teeth and thrust her fist upon the floor in anger.

* * *

Weeks passed under the roof of the Moreau manor. Christine, ever the diligent worker, continued to work for a measly salary. But as her arms and hands were busy with their tasks, her mind was far from the confines of the grand house. She thought of Sister Catherine and the brief respite she had found in the small chapel that lay just beside the forest. But most often, she thought of Erik, her tutor, her maestro, and the man whom she loved. She knew that now. The belief was burned in her mind like a brand and nothing could remove it now that it had planted itself upon her. 

She was only a child mere months ago. Ignorant of the world. Ignorant of men. Ignorant of her own heart. But now, given time and great thought, she knew in her heart that she loved him. Still so ignorant of many things, this was the only saving grace. Hers was a love that had quietly grown over time. She had not seen it there when it first took root. But as it began to grow, with each gentle caress and tender word, she could no longer deny that it existed. Her love for him had flowered into something so great, it pained her greatly that she was now alone and unable to tell him.

Christine remembered the day when she had lain upon his doorstep, the small manor empty of anyone, of _him_, and despair had filled her heart. That was still there too. But it had been tempered with time, formed into a hopelessness that remained in her soft brown eyes. She honestly did not know how he regarded her. There were so many times when she saw an act of tenderness, or had watched him in his silence as he regarded her, and wondered if there was love in his eyes as well. He had sought her out from a young age, claimed to be a kindred spirit in her pain, and had eventually succeeded in pulling her from a sheltered life into his own. But was it love that she wanted to see? Did he truly love her or was it lust in his eyes? Did he merely covet her flesh after years in exile?

She would never know. Christine felt the bitter sting of tears in her eyes and fought them back. She knelt on the floor and continued to scrub away the scuffs that had marred the marble.

_Oh, his face! That tormented face which still haunts my dreams! Can I ever forget it?_ She remembered when he had ripped the mask from his face and forced her to look upon it. Never had she been so terrified before. A part of her had wanted to know what lay behind the shield of white porcelain. A mask that had hidden half his face, but exposed the other half, dark and handsome as it was, and seemed to tempt her. She saw the curve of his lips, the glittering green eyes that almost appeared inhuman in the dark, and the masculine jaw. But they were only memories now. It was a face that she would never see again.

Annette, another servant in the house, had entered the room. She noticed the pretty young woman busy with the same spot that she had been working on nearly half and hour ago.

"Christine?" she asked, kneeling down beside her. She noticed the tears that barely contained themselves in her eyes.

Christine looked up from her work, falling back upon the floor so she now was seated in a somewhat more comfortable position. She ran her arm along her brow, wiping away the moisture that had gathered there.

"Yes?"

"You've been cleaning the same spot for nearly half an hour," the older girl said.

Christine sighed lightly and looked up at the servant, noticing the fatigue that always seemed to permeate her features.

"I was lost in thought," she admitted.

"Well, you know how insistent Madame Elliott is on our efficiency. I just don't want to see her catch you daydreaming again. The others have noticed."

Christine nodded wearily, and sat for a moment in silence with the older girl. Annette appeared to be in her mid-twenties, but the work must have taken their toll on her spirits, for she acted like one much older and moved with the slowness of an age beyond her years.

"Annette, forgive me such an odd question, but do you know of a. . .Count Bellamont?"

Annette looked at her strangely for a moment before realizing that Christine wanted an answer. "I have heard of him. He lives on an estate only an hour or so away. A recluse, from what I've heard. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Christine said, glancing away uncomfortably. "Do you know if he is living there now?"

Annette's brow furrowed for a moment. "I did hear the Count mentioning him just the other day."

Christine's expression softened momentarily.

"I believe he has not been at his estate for quite some time. The Count was saying how odd it was for a noble to have such a splendid house and never be there to live in it. Perhaps he is in Paris. . .many of the nobles take leave there during the winter, though it is late spring already, and he appears to still be gone."

Christine's gaze had lowered during the conversation. She had continued her work, this time with a greater determination.

"Christine, are you alright?"

"Yes," she lied, "I'm fine. Just a little tired."

* * *

"_What are you thinking of, my love?" a low, lyrical voice asked._

_She felt arms wind around her waist and draw her back into the warm embrace of the man who stood behind her. _

"_I did not know where you went," she replied softly. _

"_Fear not, my love," he replied, turning her around to face him, both immersed in the dark, "I will never leave you."_

_She felt his hand upon her face, felt his fingers moving over her flesh and caressing her trembling lips. A tear had slipped from her eyes and he was quick to brush it away. She saw his face in the darkness, though he had moved closer so that a peculiar moonlight fell upon the unconcealed side and illuminated it with an unearthly glow. Her breath caught in her throat. _

"_Why do you cry?" he asked softly._

_Christine fell against his chest, resting her head against his heart as she calmed herself with the gentle rise and fall of his chest._

"_You left me. I thought you did not love me anymore. I thought I was alone again, just like when my father had died. I did not want to live anymore."_

_She felt his hand beneath her chin as his fingers urged her head up, forcing her to look directly into his hypnotic eyes. Christine had always been afraid of those eyes. Seduced and frightened at the same time. Now, she felt the tug of his gaze, felt her body growing weak, and felt her soul advancing slowly toward the ocean of his eyes._

"_How could you think that? I have always loved you. I will love you until my dying breath, and beyond," he said._

"_But you are just a mere figment of my imagination. You aren't real," she wept._

_She watched as he pulled a dagger from beneath his cloak and ran the sharp edge along the flesh of his arm. It drew a line of blood across the pale skin and he watched it well upon the surface with a strange fascination._

"_See," he said softly, "I bleed just as you do. I am as real as you."_

_She gasped when he clutched at her arm and pulled her tightly against him. _

"_But you still see me as a monster, don't you?" he asked, his eyes becoming bitter. _

_She shook her head vehemently, but he continued. "I know you do. The stories you once heard of the phantom that lingered in the forest. . .may be true. He killed trespassers. He feasted upon their flesh and blood. A true monster!"_

_Christine shook her head again. "No!"_

"_You do!" he growled, pulling her close again. "Perhaps I am a monster. Whatever your mind conceives me to be, I am!"_

_She suddenly felt his mouth upon the tender flesh of her neck. Christine struggled to break free of his grasp, but he was too strong. His arms were corded about her in a powerful embrace. She felt his lips move upon her flesh, just as they once did, but this time, there was anger and urgency in his kiss. Nonetheless, her eyes fluttered shut at his ministrations. A gentle sigh fell from her parted lips. Her body longer for more, but her mind screamed for him to stop. She felt his teeth nip at her flesh. They suddenly felt so sharp upon her skin, like that of a wolf's. A scream began to form in her throat as his teeth sunk into her flesh, but was suddenly stilled as a strange calmness flooded her limbs. She felt intoxicated by his attack upon her. _

"_Stop," she cried out hoarsely._

_But he continued to ravage her neck, lapping up the blood that had pooled upon the surface._

"_Please," she cried out softly, feeling her legs give out beneath her. His embrace tightened and she found herself propped up against his strong body. She was becoming too weak. She could feel herself dying. . .is this what it feels like?_

"_Erik, stop," she cried out, gasping again as his bite deepened and her body thrust outwards in pain. "Erik, please," she whispered, her cries for mercy becoming a mantra. _

_But he did not stop. He preyed upon her like the monster of a thousand nightmares, wanting her to hate him. Wanting her to cast off the fragile love that was most likely a sham. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, turning the knuckles bone white. _

_She could not deny her feelings. Even now when he hurt her so badly, she could not help but shudder in pleasure at the briefest of touches, a slip of a finger across her tender flesh. "I love you," she suddenly uttered._

_Her hands that had clenched at his shoulders suddenly loosened and fell away. Erik pulled back abruptly, her blood still staining his lips. Christine's head fell back and her eyes fluttered from fatigue. Erik had bent over as she fell back limply, holding her up._

_He gently rested her upon the floor, regarding her with his brilliant eyes. "What did you say?"_

"_I love you," she whispered, looking up at him with naked vulnerability. _

"_You love this monster?" he asked again, as though not believing the words that had left her parted lips. _

"_With all of my being," she cried out, feeling a fresh wash of tears fall from her face. _

_He suddenly pulled away, wiping away the stain of her blood from his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. Green eyes were filled with some unnamed emotion as he retreated back into the darkness._

"_Do you love me?" she cried out, still lying upon the cold floor. _

_But he did not answer. There was no sound, only the beating of her heart._

Christine awoke with a start, calling out his name in the haze of the dream. Her body was soaked with sweat and the sheets were twisted about her legs. Drawing a hand up to her neck, she clutched at the skin that only moments before had been pierced. But nothing remained of his painful kiss. It was only a dream. A horrible dream. Yet she cried uncontrollably at the loss of his embrace, pressing her face into the pillows to muffle the sorrow from the other female servants who lay sleeping nearby.

* * *

"The Count is to host a party in two days. Therefore I am instructing you all to work diligently in the remaining time. I want this household bright and shining. There will be many guests arriving and I don't need an incompetent servant creating a disaster of the event," Madame Elliott instructed carefully. 

She walked along the line of servants that had assembled in the main hall for her instructions. The older woman frowned deeply as she passed Christine, whose head was lowered and eyes fixed upon the floor. She raised the girl's head with an insistent finger and the frown deepened.

"You! Christine," she began sternly, "you are too easily distracted in your work. If I see any negligence you will be turned out of this house and out of work, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Madame," Christine answered.

The woman, still keeping the same solemn look upon her severe features, nodded and continued on.

* * *

The work had been completed by the evening of the Count's grand party. The servants had toiled without much rest under the strict supervision of Madame Elliott. Christine had succumbed to sleep easily during those nights, her hands blistered and her back sore. When the much talked about ball finally arrived, the servants were tucked away in their own wing of the house, so as to not intrude upon the festivities and bother the guests. Many of the women gathered together and talked quietly about the Count and Countess of such a house, or of the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the widow of some unnamed estate. 

Christine grew tired of the gossip. She had never had any need for it. So she retreated to her own cot, much to her relief, in the room that had been abandoned by the servants in favor of a small common room further down the hall. She could hear their laughter as she lay upon her bed, her knees drawn up to her chest. The moonlight shone through the window and fell upon her bed like a comforting blanket. Only a faint smile crossed her features.

In the opposite direction from the noisy chatter of the servants, she could hear the party in all of its glory. The rich strains of a small orchestra resonated through the halls. A waltz. She could just imagine the rich parade of ladies decked out in all their finery. There were probably an equal number of handsome, distinguished noblemen, wearing the finest suits and waistcoats, their hands covered with expensive white gloves. If she imagined hard enough, she could see the waltz in all of its glory. The gentle sway of the ladies, as their dresses swept the floor, and the elegant steps of the men, leading their escorts in dance. She had never had the opportunity to dance with such a noble crowd. As a girl, traveling with her father and playing for so many people, she had seen the odd ball or two. But she had always been kept back from the party to watch in the recesses of the great halls. Her imaginings now were fueled by the briefest of glimpses of such waltzes. How she longed to dance as they did. To wear a beautiful gown like the other ladies and be swept across the floor by a handsome man.

Christine suddenly saw him in her daydreams. Only for a brief moment. But she saw herself, wearing a splendid pink gown that cascaded in a beautiful train of soft fabric, sweeping the floor as she was led in the arms of a man. Not any man. She saw _him_. Wearing the finest of clothes, dark and alluring as usual, with his dark hair slicked back and the white mask fitted over half of his face as though it belonged there, his eyes piercing into hers. She could almost feel his gloved hands tighten over her own. But the daydream quickly ended, and she remained coiled tightly into a fetal position as she lay on her small bed, gazing out at a sky that no longer lent its light to her.

A soft swear sounded in the hallway. Christine awoke suddenly, finding that her room was still unoccupied by the other female servants. They had undoubtedly passed out in the small servant common room after a night of indulgences. She slipped out of bed, feeling her bare feet touch the cold floor, and shivered as she scampered to the door in a thin, cotton nightgown. She inched it open and peered out into the darkness. Though it was not a complete darkness that greeted her. The party was nearing its end. The volume of voices was no longer as loud as it had been. Undoubtedly, only a few guest remained to occupy the great hall. A silhouette staggered down the hall, wearing a gentleman's hat - a drunken guest who lost his way.

She suddenly had the curiosity to make her way down the hall, after having pulled on a robe to conceal her modest apparel. In the shadows she crept, until she reached the corridor just beyond the great hall. The lights of shone brightly, and few guests did occupy the room. Several were sprawled comfortably upon the sofas lining the walls. The orchestra had long since disbanded, leaving a silence that could only be filled by conversation. Count Moreau was reclined with a few ladies, talking with a devilish expression upon his features.

Christine paused for nearly ten minutes, watching the remainder of the party with mild interest. It was not until a noise sounded nearby in the darkened corridor, that she was pulled from her observations. She spun around, pulling herself further back into the darkness, searching for the source of the noise. A figure emerged from another room and walked across the hall, pausing briefly in the shadows as though hearing something. It seemed to linger there for a while, and Christine suddenly found herself drawing back against a wall, pressing her small frame against it in fear, as she steadied her breathing.

The figure seemed to turn in the shadows. _Was I seen? _She clutched at the folds of her nightgown and trembled in the darkness. _Count Moreau will be furious if he finds me out here at this time. Please God, let him pass by without seeing me._ After several moments, she thought she heard an exhale of breath, perhaps a sigh, and a rustle of fabric, and then the figure left, drawing back towards the hall. After she knew the man was gone, Christine rushed forward and hid behind one of the many pillars that lined the corridor and looked out onto the hall. She could not find the man that had just occupied the corridor. There were several gentlemen that still stood about the hall. Some were talking closely with one another. One in particular seemed to be glancing towards the doors at the opposite end of the hall, pointing with his gloved hand, and speaking as the others looked on as well. A lady or two had also turned to catch a glimpse of something beyond the closing doors. Someone had just left. Someone who had garnered the attention of a few of the guests.

Unsatisfied by the outcome of the incident, Christine was about to go back to bed, when she saw something lying on the floor in the dark. She drew closer to it, finding that it lay near where the figure had been standing. It was a cloak, she surmised, grasping at it with her fingers. She lifted it up quietly and carried it back to her room so she could better examine it. As she lit a small candle beside her bed, and lifted the fabric with her slender hands, she gasped.

It was a gentleman's cloak. Dark and lined with a cream silk. But it was not the tailoring that surprised her. Only when she bent her head and noticed a scent did she find her hands trembling. That fragrance! It was rich, musky, exotic, and very masculine. At once intoxicating and terrifyingly seductive. Christine drew back from it, nearly dropping it on the floor. But she could not be mistaken. It was _his_ scent upon the richly tailored cloak. As she sniffed the cloak, she suddenly remembered him playing at the piano for her as she would sing. She could remember every detail – the way his elegant hands moved across the keys, the tensing of the powerful muscles in his shoulders and back, the peace that fled across his brow and nearly tugged at his mouth to will a smile. No, now she felt him carrying her when she had fallen asleep after his playing. She felt his arms about her, cradling her to him like a delicate china doll. His warmth radiated through her.

A tear suddenly fled her eye as she knelt on her bed, holding the cloak in her hands like there was nothing else more valuable in the world. _He was here. He was here the whole time, and I did not know! I have not seen him for months. I had my chance and lost it. I wanted to see him. . .so bad! I would have died happy tonight if he had just touched my face with his hand. But everything is so cold now. Oh God, I had my chance and unknowingly let it slip from my hands. _

She drew the cloak about her shivering frame as she lay upon her modest cot. The cloak lent a strange warmth to her thin limbs. As she drifted off to sleep, tears still staining her delicate face, only _his_ scent upon the rich fabric brought her any measure of peace.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N - Sorry to keep you all waiting so long. I was intending to post last weekend, but life got in the way and writer's block wasn't helping. Fortunately, I managed to get my writing moving again and hopefully take this story into an interesting direction. Again, many thanks to all of the kind reviews. . .they certainly encouraged me to keep going. Sorry to keep some of you up all night reading. L I think I've had that problem before too. **

**Chapter 19**

_He was here. I never got to speak to him. _The words churned in her mind as she awoke the next morning to the bitter reality of the day. There was no handsome prince to save her. The fairy tales of her youth were of no consolation now. Happily ever after was a myth. There was only the bleak reality of going through the motions, day after day, week after week. She had been born into a humble life, and so she would die. There was no one to take care of her now. No husband to love or to love her. She would work a hard life, devoid of music, especially _his_ music, and it was all of her own making.

They were dark thoughts. As much as she tried to cheer herself and remember the wisdom that Sister Catherine had passed along to her, nothing could save her from self pity. _No, not self pity_, she thought. _Resignation_. _I know I shall never be with him again. Perhaps there is no true love in his heart for me, but mine holds more then he can possibly know. I don't care if he doesn't love me. I will carry this love to the grave. I had my chance to be with him. I had the chance to feel some semblance of his affections, but I was a frightened girl. For lacking the courage to show him my love, God has punished me._

_Now I am to be tormented with this last token of him. His cloak. Look at me. . .a humble servant. He has lived among royalty, traveled to places I cannot even imagine, and has composed music I cannot begin to understand. I am nothing. _

_But oh, how I love him! How I wish he were here, that he could hold me in his incomparable embrace. How I wish I weren't alone. That he were here to shelter me, to guide me. . .to love me. I long to hear his voice again. That voice which even the angels must envy. I long to see his eyes again. The eyes that both threaten and adore. I long to feel his touch again, even if it isn't motivated by love._

_

* * *

_

It was on a day off when Christine's past finally met up with her. She had left the confines of the Moreau Manor for the nearby town. The small, bustling town was only a short distance away and she did not mind the walk. It did her good to walk and think about the matters that had weighed so heavily upon her mind.

Christine found the small town of Clermont, where she had first seen the job posting in the small shop along the bustling street. Nearly the entire afternoon was spent walking lazily up the street, peering into store windows and dreaming of things that could never be. More then once, a shopkeeper would shoo her away from the window, berating her for standing too closely, for pressing her hands against the glass, and for loitering in general. They probably saw her state of dress, her simple clothes, her worn woolen cloak, and surmised that she had no money to spend in their shop. Had she been a woman of wealth, they surely would have ushered her into the store and doted over her as she picked out gowns or shoes, or perhaps a lovely necklace.

Christine was growing hungry. She had had a small breakfast in the servants' hall before departing the house that morning. But her stomach began to growl and she knew that she would have to stop for something. Her salary was small, but at least she could spread it out smartly enough to buy the things she needed. After purchasing a pastry from the bakery, Christine sat out in the afternoon sun and basked in the heat.

Here, amidst the sound of the people, the warmth of sun, and the sounds of birds in the trees, she could find a welcome respite in the humble town. Count Moreau was becoming increasingly 'fond' of her in particular, and she found herself having to avoid his presence altogether. She shuddered at the thought of his unwholesome eyes wandering her body, or the grasp of his fingers upon her wrist when she was caught off guard.

Christine felt a fear towards Moreau like nothing she had experienced before. She had once believed that her fear for her strange teacher was a silent warning to her. But she knew now that her fear for Erik had been undoubtedly different. She was not afraid for her life or for her safety when she had been around him. The fear of the unknown had cloaked her mind. Strange, new feelings that had been dormant for most of her life now threatened to engulf her. She had shivered at his gaze upon her, and at his touch, but what she feared was losing control. A part of her had wanted his touch, his love. There was no chill to illicit the trembling of her body.

Christine grew increasingly afraid of her new employer. There was a predatory gleam in his eyes. She knew there was no benign affection in his expressions, only the will to do harm. There was darkness in his eyes, a cruelty that made her fear for her safety.

Lost in thought, Christine did not hear the surprised voices of two approaching figures. She raised her head slowly, squinting in the sunlight, and saw a rustle of dresses sweeping the ground as they moved rapidly towards her.

"Christine? Christine, is that you?" a woman's voice called.

Not just any woman. Christine gazed up quickly, seeking out the features of the figure standing before her.

"Madame Giry?" her voice was a hoarse whisper as she choked back her emotions.

Firm, maternal arms wound themselves around her thin body and pulled her into a warm, comforting embrace. Tears filled her eyes as she pressed her face against the older woman's shoulder. She could smell the faint, familiar perfume, and see the woman's dark red hair pulled back neatly beneath a bonnet.

"Meg," she said softly, noticing the hesitant girl behind her guardian.

The blond girl strode up quickly and embraced Christine as well.

Antoinette finally pulled away, regarding Christine with clear, scrutinizing eyes. She studied her, as though trying to see that every detail was as it had been. Finally, her heavy gaze fell upon Christine's tired face.

"It had been so long. We had feared for you, my dear. But I knew in my heart that you were alive," she said in awe. "Where have you been?"

A sad sigh fell from Christine's lips. Where could she begin? So much had happened during the last year. But as Madame Giry's serious gaze would not leave her, she knew that she would have to recount every detail for the older woman to be satiated. Meg had settled down on the small bench beside her mother, eagerly watching as Christine recounted her tale with tears in her eyes. They heard everything, from the moment she had left the strange little town south of the forest, to her current place of occupation. Almost every detail was given. But even Christine could not bring herself to reveal the emotions that lay within her heart. She told them of her teacher and her stay with him, but she did not want to tell them of his passionate behavior, or her own feelings.

But as Christine finished telling her story and looked up into the eyes of her guardian, she knew the Madame Giry could read the unspoken parts of her tale. There was an understanding in her scrutinizing eyes.

"Maman, could Christine come with us? We could be together then," Meg entreated.

"That is for Christine to decide," the older woman stated. She brushed aside a lock of hair from Christine's face. "We have taken work in another household. I am to be head housekeeper. It would not be different from what you are already doing, but at least you would be among friendly faces again."

She brushed away a tear from her face and nodded softly. "I would like that very much, Madame Giry. But, why did you leave the town?"

Madame Giry nearly snorted in amusement. "We both needed a change of scenery. My work in the town was dwindling. There was really nothing for Meg to stay for."

* * *

Christine returned to Moreau Manor that night, her spirits having been lifted considerably since her departure from Sister Catherine. She had already informed Madame Elliott of her quitting and the housekeeper did not seem to care either way. Christine packed away what little she had into a small case in her room. She was to meet Madame Giry and Meg in Clermont the next morning, and accompany them to their new place of employment. 

She was about to sneak off to the servants' hall for one last meal when she heard voices coming from the opposite direction. Curiosity overcame her, and she slipped down the hall, in the direction of the sitting room. The Count was sitting in the large parlor, with a crackling fire warming the room from the ornate fireplace. He was lounged in a tall armchair while another man sat across from him, hidden by his own chair.

"I must say," the Count began, "this is a most unexpected meeting. Nonetheless, I have been wishing to speak with you privately for quite some time."

"Your party was quite splendid the other night," the other man replied.

_Odd_, she thought to herself.

"Yes, it was, wasn't it," Count Moreau said, chuckling softly to himself.

"And your guests. . ."

"The best in the region. I dare say, the ladies were especially delightful this time."

"Oh?"

"Come now," Moreau chuckled darkly, "a man of your status knows exactly to what I'm referring. We are lucky men, are we not? We have the pick of the litter, so to speak. Women fall at our feet for our money, if not for anything else."

"Indeed."

"But I grow tired of such women. Personally, I find the game has tired me considerably."

Have you taken on another game then?"

Moreau laughed and Christine felt her skin crawl as she listened in the silence from the darkened corridor. There were a few inaudible low murmurs that she could not decipher.

"They tremble like leaves when you enter the room. There is something alluring about that fear."

A silence passed between the two men. Christine could hear the clink of their brandy glasses and the sharp crackles from the fireplaces.

"Interesting that you have brought up such a subject," the guest mused.

_Strange, that he sounds like. . ._

"Oh?"

"I have been in search of such a young woman. I could not help but notice one of them at the party the other night," the guest continued.

"One of the lovely Mademoiselles?"

"No, no," the strangely familiar voice responded curtly, "one of the servants. Quite captivating, actually. Long, chestnut curls, lovely red lips, soft brown eyes. Quite a docile, fearful creature, I say."

"Ahhhh," Moreau chuckled to himself. "Christine. You do have good tastes, monsieur. I daresay she has proven to be rather elusive. But I am sure _you_ would get your money's worth with her."

"For what price could I transfer her. . .employment. . .to me?" he asked.

_It's him! I know it is! _Christine fought back bitter tears as the negotiations proceeded.

"Well," Moreau laughed, obviously a little drunk from the brandy. "Name a price and I will consider."

They murmured lowly for a while. Christine felt her heart sink. As much as she had been overjoyed to hear his voice again, now she felt a stab at her heart over the degrading and obscene trade that was being made. _How could he? I am not a prize to be traded. I have given my resignation. I am a free woman, to do whatever I desire. They cannot barter me like cattle. They cannot! Oh Lord, what punishment do I serve? He does not love me! What a foolish girl I am! He never loved me! His words only confirm that his heart is black with lust. I was a foolish girl to ever see love in his expressions. But I loved him! I loved him so dearly! And now he haunts my steps only to hurt me._

_

* * *

_

She ran to her room and closed the door behind her. Grateful that the other women had not returned to the quarters yet, Christine cried bitterly into the thin pillow of her bed. She had longed for him so badly. Her dreams and her thoughts were filled with his gentle embrace. But now she knew only the coldness of the reality. He had placed bids upon her 'companionship,' undoubtedly eager to acquire her as his mistress.

The way his voice had sounded in that room was strange. At first, she did not know it was him. There was something different about that once heavenly voice. It seemed unbearably cold now. Unfeeling! As though the man she had once known had been stripped away, leaving only a shadow to remain.

_Where is the man I once knew? Where is the man who brushed away my tears and held me in his embrace? Where is the man who would sing softly to me? _

A harsh knock sounded upon her door nearly an hour later. Christine hastily brushed her tears away and adjusted her gown. She was just about to open the door when it burst open. She gasped, stepping back as it was thrust open. Count Moreau loomed in the doorway. His sharp features were relaxed into a dangerous expression.

"My dear!" he exclaimed, entering the room and closing the door behind him.

"What-what are you doing here?" she stuttered.

"I'm only here to tell you that your services have been requested by another. Though I am reluctant to part with such a lovely worker," he said, fingering a stray lock of her hair.

She pulled away from him, shuddering at his touch, and offering him only a rebellious gleam in her soft brown eyes.

"I no longer work here," Christine argued. "I gave my notice to Madame Elliott."

"And?"

"I will find employment elsewhere, on my own terms," she countered, lifting her bag from the bed and standing firmly in place.

"I see," he said, looking quite thoughtful for a moment as he stroked his moustache. "My dear, you are not employed under Madame Elliott. You are employed under me. I have not accepted your resignation."

"You cannot force me to stay here," Christine argued. "Goodbye, Monsieur."

She moved towards the door with determination, but the Count moved in front of her and blocked her way.

"I can do whatever I wish. This is my house. I own what lies beneath this roof," he seethed. His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight.

Moreau's hand gripped her wrist tightly and he forced her back into the room, throwing her back upon her cot. The bag slipped from her hands and landed on the floor. Christine twisted her body, trying to get up, but he was upon her within moments. She felt his breath upon her face, the smell of liquor permeated her senses. She struggled beneath him, writhing and twisting about as he fought back, holding her firmly down upon the bed.

"You think you can escape me so easily?" he breathed. "I may be passing you along to another, but there was no agreement saying I could not have you before you leave."

Christine screamed, but she felt his heavy hand clamp over her mouth. She heard him as he moved to unbuckle his trousers and fought back viciously. But he was stronger then her. He held her firmly as his mouth descended upon the skin of her neck. She could hear the ripping of fabric and realized, in her shock-induced state, that he was tearing at her gown. His mouth was moving along her skin, finding the bare flesh at her shoulder, and threatening to descend lower.

She suddenly regained her senses. As though in a dream, she felt her limbs move of their own accord. Her knee drew up harshly against his chest, and she used the leverage to push him away. Moreau staggered back, surprise flashing in his dark eyes as he watched the frail girl who still lay sprawled upon the measly cot. She rose quickly, trying to adjust the hopelessly torn gown upon her thin frame. Moreau advanced upon her with a growl.

"Stay away from me!" she shrieked, anger pervading her angelic voice. "I warn you!"

Moreau chuckled darkly. "Little that will do."

Her bands beat upon his frame but were of little use. She did manage a punch alongside his face, catching his mouth as her fist collided with his jaw. Moreau wiped the blood that began to pool along his lip in one single swipe of his forearm. A deadly malice filled his eyes and he continued his advance upon the desperate girl. Thick fingers circled her neck and tightened, cutting off her air supply. Christine fell to her knees, clutching at his fingers, trying desperately to dig into the flesh and scratch away the steely grip upon her neck. As the seconds passed by, and her fight became more and more labored, Christine felt the room begin to darken. Her lungs fought viciously for air, but she was slowly slipping from consciousness into the oblivion she dared not imagine. Her eyes began to droop. The room was becoming darker. _No, I cannot let him win. I am no one's. He cannot have me! Oh God, please help me. Help me in this dark hour! I can endure the trials you heap upon me, but please spare me my life and keep me from this evil. Do not allow him to take away what I have given to no man. _

Christine felt her body fall backward and wondered when her back would hit the floor. But it never connected. Sounds swirled around her. Blurs of color and light flashed within her field of vision. She found that her arms were beginning to move again, that her hands sought out the firmness of the floor and forced her body to lift itself up. The room spun madly, but in the midst of the storm, she had the presence of mind to stagger towards the open door and dash out.

Night was upon the land. The darkness filled the landscape beyond the brightly lit manor. Only the moon and stars offered any light, and by their light, Christine made her way from the steps, grabbed onto the dark, looming figure that waited patiently before her, and hauled her weak body upon the creature's back. It stirred gently in the dark, whinnying as she fell forward upon its mane. A scream had echoed behind her. No, a shout. Or perhaps a howl. In her daze, she could not tell. She only knew it was over when something drew up behind her and urged the creature into motion. Then the road began to move incredibly fast beneath her. Her body lurched against the creature's neck with each powerful thrust of its legs, until it slipped into a smooth gallop.

She felt her hair whip behind her, felt the cool night air upon the exposed skin of her shoulders, but she did not care. The house was far behind now, and she would never return to it.

Before unconsciousness claimed her mind, before sleep lowered its veil over her head, she found her eyes drifting wearily upwards, fastening upon the stars above. A sob or a moan drifted from her parted lips. "Angel." Then she knew no more.

* * *

"Christine," a gentle, feminine voice said. 

She opened her eyes, not sure of what to expect, after the blurred and disjointed events of the previous night. Christine found sunlight streaming into her sleep-laden eyes. But it was a filtered, dusty sunlight that illuminated the small room in which she awoke. The wooden floors and modest cot spoke of a more humble room then any of those at Moreau Manor. _Thank you, Lord, for not sending me back to that dreaded place!_

She looked up at the source of the voice and found the serious and yet comforting features of Madame Giry. The older woman sat beside her on the small cot, brushing the wayward curls from her clammy forehead.

"Madam," Christine whispered hoarsely, "where am I?"

"You are in Clermont," Antoinette replied, smiling in relief at the sound of her young charge's voice.

"But, how did I get here?"

"Hush now, child," Giry replied, standing up from the bed. "Too many questions all at once."

The woman moved over to a small dresser and poured a glass of water from a porcelain pitcher. She returned to Christine's bedside and carefully handed her the glass. Christine accepted the gesture and drank slowly.

"But, Madam," Christine finally said, placing the glass down on the bedside table, "I was attacked last night by my employer. The Count tried to. . .he. . ." a silent sob wracked her body, and she brought her hand up to her mouth.

The older woman watched with concerned eyes. She gently stroked the girl's back with a comforting hand. "You will never have to return to that wretched place again. We are together now. We have each other."

"Madame," Christine cried, pulling back from the embrace and looking at the older woman with a tear-stained face, "I loved him. I did not tell you before, but I loved him so deeply. More than anyone, save papa. Why? Why did he do this to me?"

"I don't know, child," was Antoinette's only reply before receiving Christine's quaking body in her arms once more.

"I will not weep as a child anymore, Madame. I am a woman now, and I must be strong. I loved him once. . .I cannot deny that," she said, her sobs ceasing as she muttered these words against Antoinette's shoulder. "But his love is gone. I will find new purpose in life, just as I set out to do. I only hope I can become as strong as you."

The older woman pressed her chin into the girl's curls and smiled sadly.

"Who brought me here?" she asked again. "I must know."

Madame Giry's mouth formed a firm line and she wondered if the answer should be uttered. With much hesitation, she formed her words carefully.

"Only an angel could have carried you from such a horrible place. But it was a man that left you behind, here at the inn."

Christine felt her fingers tighten on the sleeves of Giry's dress as she pressed her face against the woman's shoulder. "I dreamt it was my angel. I dreamt that he carried me off just as he once did. Strange. . .that the dream could be so real."

As she lay in the comforting embrace of the only mother she had ever known, Christine found the events of the previous night beginning to surface. But so clouded in ambiguity were they, she could not trust her senses, even though they screamed of _his_ touch, of _his_ scent, and of _his _voice.

* * *

It was by carriage ride that Madame Giry, Meg, and Christine journeyed to the new house. Christine had fallen into a much needed sleep in the back of the carriage. Her body had grown thinner over the weeks serving at the Moreau Manor. The delicate features of her face had grown even more pale and disconcerting. If she had been slender creature before, she was now a frail young woman. The dark bonnet and traveling cloak were a stark contrast to the gentle face, whose mouth was now relaxed in sleep. Only her lips offered any remarkable color to her features. But the blood red quality was almost disturbing. 

They were drawing nearer now to the estate. Antoinette gently shook Meg from her nap and pointed at the large house that was coming into view. Meg smiled broadly and glanced back at her mother, who offered a guarded sign of approval in return. Giry glanced down at the sleeping young woman beside her and gently stroked her face. _I hope this house will heal her afflictions, whether they be physical or spiritual. It has been many years since I last saw him. _


	20. Chapter 20

** A/N - I never grow tired of all of the positive reviews. I'm grateful to have such eager readers. After the desperate plea of a reviewer wanting a posting today, I finally finished this chapter. If it seems a tad dark or depressing in anyway. . .well, I pretty much can relate today. You know, it really does suck to be single on Valentine's Day. I don't care that it's one day of the year, and that it doesn't really matter. Easy to say for the married/taken. Still looking for my own knight in dark armor. . .wink wink. And nothing like the last boring guy I was set up with at a corworker's party. Ugh. I'm sorry, but if you can't even speak to me for most of the evening, and show no genuine interest, and then ask for my number through my coworker later, that's really not impressing me. So, I'll make it thru the day with the help of a few glasses of wine and some chick shows like Gilmore Girls. Ranting has concluded. Enjoy! And I'm giving a shout out to all of the fellow single people out there soaking up their sorrows today. Right there with ya!**

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 20**

Christine had fallen asleep in the carriage on the journey with Madame Giry and Meg. Her mind swam with the events of the previous night. Of the attack upon her by Count Moreau. Of the strange, clouded journey away from that dreaded house. But most of all, her dreams were saturated with the imprint of her angel. She felt the bitter resignation over and over at hearing his words in the hall. The coldness of his tone marred the beauty of his voice. Such a voice would never leave her mind. Who could ever hear such a glorious voice and forget it over time? It haunted her dreams. Even now, she could hear his songs as they echoed in her mind. She could remember with such clarity the power and seduction hidden in his songs. But now, she longed for the gentleness of his music.

Her eyes opened as the carriage jerked to a halt. The sun shone brightly in her eyes, and she almost wished it dark. She raised a hand to her forehead and suddenly noticed how pale her flesh appeared. _What has happened to me? I have wasted away without my angel. I am a mere shadow of his music. _

She looked up from the carriage at the house that was to be her new home. Home was not the proper word. Christine would work here, alongside Madame Giry and her friend Meg. The days would probably be much the same as her time at Moreau Manor. The biggest exception being that she would be among friends that would not allow her to wilt away. She found strength in that notion, and a small smile crept across her lips. But as her eyes fell upon the features of the great house, taking in the complexity of the architecture and the familiar drive leading up to the front door, a strange dread filled her heart. She felt her heart sink in her chest. Her breath caught in her throat.

_It cannot be_, she realized worriedly. _This house. . .his house! I remember coming here with Raoul. I spoke with a foreign gentleman. It cannot be._

"Christine," Meg suddenly spoke up, leaning forward in her seat to regard her friend, "you look positively ill. What is the matter?"

Christine's hand gripped the frame of the carriage, white knuckles blatantly showing themselves beneath her flesh. Madame Giry had turned as well, but regarded Christine with a much different look. There was worry in her eyes, but not an innocent worry like that in Meg's blue eyes.

"I-I cannot," she stuttered, glancing wide eyed over at Antoinette, "I cannot go in."

"Christine," Giry soothed, clasping her trembling hand in her own, "It will be alright. I am with you. We are together now."

"You don't understand," she replied, shaking her head fiercely, while determination filled her brown eyes. "It is _his_ house! It is Erik's! I cannot. . .I cannot face him."

"Maman," Meg interceded, resting a thin hand on her mother's arm, "Perhaps you should go ahead. I can watch Christine until you return."

"Very well. I will go ahead and sort out our living arrangements. Take a walk down the drive," she added. "It's a beautiful day and Christine needs some fresh air."

Antoinette removed herself from the carriage, readjusting her modest, yet elegant gown before proceeding confidently towards the door. She knocked demurely on it and waited patiently before a gentlemen servant opened the door and bowed slightly.

"Madame Giry. . .I presume?" he asked.

"Yes, I am she," the older woman responded. The man backed away, allowing her access to the house.

Antoinette walked inside and glanced around at the expansive halls, not prepared for the wealth laid out before her. She took a brief look around the visible area, noting the elegant, yet highly comfortable drawing room with a stoked fireplace and intimate seating area. The main foyer, with its high ceilings and marvelous chandelier, reminded her more of a palace then anything else. _My God, Erik_, she thought_, you weren't lying when you mentioned you had come into some wealth_.

Before she could whirl around at a distinct footstep behind her, a deep voice resonated through the hall.

"Madame Giry," the baritone voice sounded.

"Erik," she nodded, when she had finally turned to face him. "Or shall I call you Count Bellamont?"

"I think it's best if we leave the former for more private conversations," he replied.

She studied him quietly for a moment. He had not changed too much since she had last seen him, several years ago. She remembered the younger man, having returned from a lifetime's worth of travels, with the strange, enigmatic mask covering one side of his face. He carried himself now with more power then she could remember. Always the impeccable dresser, he stood before her in only the finest of suits, complete with an elegant forest green waistcoat and a white cravat at his throat. He still wore the white mask upon half his face. But she was used to the strangeness of it. The mask was a part of him now.

She could see why Christine had been frightened of him at one time. Erik was a tall, imposing man. His thin build seemed to have amassed a moderate amount of muscle. Dark hair was slicked back behind his ears. The same piercing green eyes shone from his face, one cloaked in the mystique of the white mask, and one laid bare beneath a regal brow. Christine had not known many men in her young life. Her father had been the sole figure for much of her younger years. Undoubtedly, when she had first seen Erik, she had felt much like a terrified child cowering before such a powerful presence. His eyes could burn through a person's body and some of his reputations had been founded in fact.

"Where is she?" he suddenly asked, breaking the unbearable silence that had built a wall between them.

"Outside with my daughter Meg. She looked rather ill on the journey here," Antoinette explained, casting a worried glance back at the door.

She turned to see Erik staring strangely ahead of her, a haunted expression relaxing his cold features.

"I recommended they take a walk to get some fresh air," she added. Upon Erik's silence, she continued. "It is a relief you came for her when you did. I fear to think what may have happened had you not."

His eyes fixed on the older woman for a moment. "I have instructed Charles to show you to your rooms."

"Our rooms?"

"You have helped me countless times. It is the least I can do to offer you suitable living arrangements while you work in my house."

"Of course," Madame Giry said gently.

She turned her head slowly, the breeze from the partially opened door stirring the tendrils of auburn hair at her neck. Meg was slowly approaching the door with Christine in tow. _Poor girl_, Giry thought to herself, _she looks so pale. I fear how living under this roof will affect her. _

Meg climbed the few steps, casually, brushing the dust from the skirts of her dress, while she held Christine's hand in her own. The older girl stood reluctantly behind her, squinting in the bright sunlight and twining her fingers nervously through the folds of her dark dress.

"Maman?"

"Come along, Meg," Antoinette beckoned. Charles here will direct us to our rooms as. . ."

Giry had turned to indicate Erik's wishes, but he no longer stood before her. The hall was deathly quiet once again, but Charles, the butler, had returned and was already in the process of lifting their bags from the marble floors. _He will not even stay to greet her. I did not know anyone could ever affect him like this. He has never cared much for the people in this world, as they have not cared for him. But he hides from such a slip of a girl._

Antoinette's troubled eyes quickly moved to the business ahead of them. She led the girls, behind Charles, down the hall and into a quieter corridor. Meg still held Christine closely, fawning over her as though over a reluctant child. Christine had always been the stronger one. She had always been more talented, and Meg had come to look upon her as an older sister. Meg remembered the sadness that had permeated her childhood after the passing of Gustave Daae. Now, that sadness seemed replaced by something else altogether. There was fatigue in her lovely eyes, as though her year apart from them had been much longer and harder then that span of time could provide. She had grown up in that year. She was no longer the child that she had left as. Knowledge was in her eyes now. The cares of a quiet girl were no longer in her mind. Indeed she had worked hard in the last few months to scratch a modest income.

But there was also something else in her eyes. Perhaps sadness, but not the same as that felt for her father's passing. There was emptiness in her gaze now, as though she had lost a part of herself somewhere along her journey. Her heart had not been spared during that year.

Meg tightened her grip on Christine's arm in a reassuring manner. Her friend was tired, probably from a combination of last night's events and the journey today. But she also appeared slightly malnourished. _I hope she is not falling ill. It will not do her good to get sick in this new house right away._

Charles first showed them to Madame Giry's room. The room was modest, yet sizeable with well-maintained furniture, a four poster bed and a vanity. The old butler set down her luggage near the door and gestured for them to follow him down the hall. Meg's room, to her delight and surprise, as she expected to room with her mother, was right beside Antoinette's. It was a smaller room, but the furniture was more then she expected and the room neat and tidy. They continued on down the hall and nearly came to a set of stairs before Christine spoke up.

"Am I not to stay with Madame Giry and Meg?" she asked quietly.

"Yes, of course," the polite older man replied. He stopped before the stairs, at the end of the hall, and opened a door that was indeed further down the hall from Madame Giry and Meg. "I was at first instructed to give you a room on the second floor, but the Count thought it best to keep you close to the other ladies."

Christine nearly breathed a sigh of relief. She felt out of sorts in this grand house. In _his_ grand house. He felt like a complete mystery to her again. Had she ever really known him? She could not imagine being split apart from the only people she called family in such a strange place. Christine's gaze drifted towards the staircase. _Is he up there right now? _

Charles swung the door open and Meg gasped before Christine turned her head. The room was bright and cheery, with large windows lining the furthest wall. A large four poster bed, vanity, and wardrobe furnished the modest-sized room. It was not overly-done, but there were reminders that her room had been more planned then the others. Reluctantly, Christine loosened her bonnet and allowed Meg to remove her riding cloak from her shoulders. Charles placed her small bag beside her bed. _I had left it near my bed last night. How. . ._

"Christine," Antoinette said in her motherly tone, "you should get some rest before tomorrow."

Without protesting, Christine nodded softly and said her goodbyes to Meg and Antoinette as they left her room and retreated back down the hall. The soft murmur of their voices was a welcoming sound. Too tired to change from her dress, Christine slipped into the soft covers of her bed and drew them up around her. Sleep came quickly and she was glad that her mind was too weary to manifest her fears and hesitations into nightmares.

* * *

They began their work the following day. Madame Giry, as head housekeeper, was in charge of the small group of servants that were to tend to the rooms and cook the meals. Meg Giry had quietly and obediently accepted her role as maid. She seemed pleased to finish a day's work and admire all that she had accomplished. Christine had struggled to work alongside her all day. She seemed unusually tired, but she was trying her best to keep up. Her chocolate curls were pulled back at the nape of her neck but her eyes, the shadows that fell beneath them, drew a tired expression over her face. The dark grey dress she wore did nothing to counter the fatigue. Meg could see how thin she had become, almost frail. It was the accumulation of all of these changes that drew Meg's fair brow into a worried expression.

"Christine," Meg suddenly called out while the two were busy straightening up the drawing room.

Her friend looked up, offering the faintest of smiles.

"Let us have tea," the blond girl announced. "We have been working for quite some time, and you really should have a rest."

"A rest?" Christine asked, brushing her arm across her forehead. Her eyes seemed listless, but she continued polishing the wooden furniture with a determined arm.

Meg drew nearer and stopped Christine's arm as it worked furiously on the wood. A pained expression crossed the older girl's face for a moment, but Christine soon stifled it with a look of resignation.

"Come to the kitchen," Meg said, "We're allowed to take tea in there anytime we wish. Maman said we can have our meals there too. Count Bellamont was quite generous with our living arrangements."

A small frown appeared on Christine's face. Her eyes lowered for a moment in quiet reflection before Meg distracted her and tugged playfully at her arm. She could not help but smile at her friend's antics and followed.

* * *

Several days passed and Christine did not see one trace of Erik in the vast household. Perhaps it was better that way. He was undoubtedly aware of her presence among his servants. But her thoughts were troubled with the night on which she had left Moreau Manor. His conversation with that vile man had haunted her mind since then. Had he really regarded her so lowly? After the strange events involving her departure, Christine had come to believe that it was he who had spirited her away. Who else could possess such a fearful shadow at night, or sing with such a heavenly voice – one moment soaring and eclipsing all others, the next low and masculine like nothing she had ever heard before.

"Christine," Madame Giry's voice sounded gently. "The Count wishes to take tea in the parlor. Could you carry a tray to him?"

It was a Wednesday afternoon, and Christine had been busy rearranging the bedding in several unused guest bedrooms. She looked up from her chore with widened eyes.

"Madame, how is it that you know _him_?" her voice seemed to resonate with emotion. "Why did you not tell me that we were to work here?"

Giry relaxed for a moment. _She knew_. _Well, all of the facts pointed to this one truth. _Christine had told her about the strange house she had come to live in amidst the forest. She had recounted much of the man that had owned the house, including his name. No doubt, Christine had wondered how they had suddenly come to live in the household of that very same man.

"I have known Erik for many years. I once helped him out of obscurity when the world had turned its back on him. We were friends, of a sort."

Christine walked across the room, pulling back the blinds from a window and gazing out vacantly.

When the girl continued to remain pensively silent, Antoinette continued. "And to answer your second question, I was only doing what was in your best interests, Christine."

"I do not understand," she answered strangely.

"You love him," Antoinette observed candidly, if not guardedly, "I can see it in your eyes. They are so weary, my dear. You waste away without his presence. Look at how thin you've become. I remember how you were when your father passed away. He was such a talented man. . .I admired him a great deal. After he died, you refused to come out of your room for days. You took no food. I had to push you to take a meal lest you fade away completely."

"I did not want to live if he wasn't there," Christine said.

"But he wanted you to live," Antoinette said, pausing for a moment as the memories almost seemed to flash in her eyes. "He wanted you to sing. . .to use your talent."

"What good will it do? Father said that an angel of music would look after me. I believed those words," she mused, glancing away sadly. "But they proved only to be a fairy tale. To think that I believed such stories!"

"Do you not see all that has transpired?" Giry said, stepping before Christine and resting a slender hand on her shoulder. "You have been taught by the greatest of teachers. If ever there was an angel of music, it would be him."

"Perhaps," Christine replied, her voice fading.

"But?"

"I cannot face him again. I just. . .cannot," Christine said, raising a hand to her brow as though soothing a bitter headache. "It is not that I abhor him. . .far from that. But I fear what will happen if I let myself go. I still do not truly know what he feels for me. Am I his prized student? Am I girl to be pitied in the wake of her father's death? Am I. . .only suited to fulfill a man's earthly pleasures?"

Antoinette raised an eyebrow as she regarded Christine. _She looks so much older now. No, it's not that. The way she talks. Where is the carefree girl I once knew? There is so much pain in her voice, but she wears her emotions behind a heavy veil, her face frozen from expression. _

"He told me little of that night when he took you away from Moreau Manor," Giry explained. Christine looked at her abruptly, but the older woman could tell by her expression that she already knew the truth. "You heard words that weren't truly his. He was only trying to remove you from that house."

Christine turned a nodded softly. "Somehow, I knew that." She paused in the doorway, "I should prepare the tea."

"Christine," Giry suddenly said. "He loves you, more then you may ever know. But. . .be careful. There is much that clouds his past. There are secrets that you may find. I just want you to be careful."

* * *

She carried the tray with unsteady hands. _No, they are trembling. Why can't I stop them from shaking?_ The doorway to the parlor loomed ahead. A soft glow suffused the room from the late afternoon sun, as it shone through barely parted curtains. There was an unbearable silence about the room. _My legs now. Will my own limbs betray me at this hour? Oh Lord, grant me courage!_

Christine made her way slowly through the doorway. She could see him sitting in a large armchair, his back to her, with only the top of his head and his arms upon the armrests betraying his presence. A novel was held upright in his hand and from the tenseness of his demeanor, he was deep in thought. A small, round table lay beside his chair, and Christine cautiously made her way towards it with reluctant steps. Her heart raced unceasingly as she bent to set the silver tray down. Long, slender hands shook as they gripped the tray tighter, and the rattle of the teacup upon its saucer finally gave her away.

Before she could look up in fear, before she could gauge his reaction, she felt his warm hand upon hers, as it still rested on the edge of the tray. Christine drew away sharply, clutching her hand to her breast as though burned by the touch of his hand. He turned ever so slightly in his chair, the visible side of his face regarding her with a quiet intensity. A single green eye narrowed for a moment as it scrutinized her appearance, and she felt suddenly embarrassed and uncomfortable at her state of disarray.

"Christine." The word fell from his lips like a reverent prayer.

She stood still beside him, quaking uncontrollably as he turned fully to look upon the young woman who for so long, had been parted from his side. There was still a stern countenance upon his face. But she found herself drinking in the very sight of him. _I had forgotten how beautiful he is. How could I have forgotten? A mere glance makes me feel unworthy of his attention. I do not care what lies beneath the mask. _

"Yes, Monsieur?" she whispered brokenly.

He seemed to cringe at the formality of the word. _Will she never again call me by my given name? Have I alienated her so completely that the bond has finally snapped?_

"Why are you shaking?" he asked, his voice so agonizingly gentle.

"I-I do not know. Forgive me," she responded, casting aside her face in shame.

"There is no need," he said. She stood awkwardly by as he removed the cup from its saucer and sipped the warm drink in silence for a moment. A frown appeared on his mouth, his brow creased ever so slightly, and Christine nearly stepped back in fear of reprisal.

"Is it not to your liking?" she asked. "I-I can prepare a new pot if you. . ."

"The tea is fine," he interrupted.

His brilliant eyes flashed upon her for a moment, and she realized that his gaze had drifted to her neck. She drew a hand up to the exposed skin and suddenly knew why his attention was so fixed upon her neck. The bruises – they littered her porcelain skin with the horrible reminder of Count Moreau's aggression.

"Come here," he commanded her, his voice so soft she nearly missed his words.

It was a voice she could not refuse. A voice he had used on occasion to persuade her in her studies, or reprimand her for a mistake. That was why she trembled as her body moved unconsciously closer until she stood right beside the dark red armchair. As if by silent command, she knelt beside the chair on her knees.

Erik's hand brushed over the armrest and moved aside the curls that obscured the injury. Her eyes fluttered closed at the contact and she realized how much she had missed his gentle touch – how much she had yearned for it. The long, slender, masculine fingers gently probed the flesh, slowly circling her neck as they trailed along the angry bruises. He watched with such focus, that he even noticed the gentle flinch of the muscles beneath her skin as the pressure of his touch momentarily strengthened. The downward tug of her soft lips and gentle creasing of her fair brow prompted him to pull back his hand.

The absence of his touch was heartbreakingly cold. Christine moved away quickly as though she had crossed a forbidden line. She rose swiftly to her feet and nearly stumbled back. Her heart raged incessantly. "I should return. There is work to be done," she said faintly, her voice a hollow echo of its glorious potential.

"Go then, Christine," Erik responded, having risen from his chair, to stand before her with his commanding height.

For the first time in months, he regarded her fully, bathed in the late afternoon light that streamed through the barely parted curtains. She had grown thinner since she had lived at his house in the woods. Her face was pale and weary looking, though its beauty had never faded. The soft brown eyes that conveyed such emotion were now expressionless. He suddenly berated himself inwardly for sending her away. His rose, such beauty he could not imagine, had faded from neglect.

She was gone in an instant, lithely stepping out of the room and slipping into the obscurity of shadow. _I have turned her into what I am – a mere shadow. Can I ever forgive myself for tainting such beauty?_


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N - Finally I was able to post! I couldn't upload my chapter yesterday when it was all ready to go. Just a few notes. The song that Christine sings is actually a folk song from Newfoundland. I loved the melody and I thought the words went well with the moment. Erik's song was my own creation, set to the music of No One Would Listen, from the movie. Finally, an event that occurs further on in this chapter was inspired by the movie Sense and Sensibility. If you've seen the Kate Winslet movie, you'll know what I'm talking about. **

**Valentine's Day is far behind now. I'm checking out the wonderful world of speed dating with a coworker tonight. Let the games begin!   
**

**Chapter 21**

Erik kept to himself for so much of the time, never leaving the sanctuary of his own room or study. It was easy to get lost in such a large house. In all honesty, he did not require such a lavish estate. He had been used to such smaller accommodations. Then again, he had lived in the richest of houses. The exotic home of the Persian royal family had been his dwelling place for a few years of his life. But amidst all of the obscene wealth and luxury of such places, even the tasteful and expensive mansions of France, he knew that living under such conditions would never satisfy him.

There was only one thing that had ever shown any promise of quenching a need he had once thought never existed. But he had been careless and nearly crushed the rose in his hands. Now he watched her from afar, as she worked as hard as her frail body would allow. She could not see him from her vantage point. Loose curls hung limply around her face as she polished the silver laid out before her on a long wooden table.

He would not repeat the past again. He would not allow her to fall from the safety of his hand again. To have her petals fade from neglect. For that very reason, he had sought her out and arranged her transport to his house. Here, he could at least watch over her. Perhaps among the only people she called family, Christine would flourish again. He longed to hear the angelic voice that he had so carefully shaped. He longed to see a smile grace the features that were now riddled with fatigue.

* * *

While she was cleaning, Christine allowed herself to slip into the regions of the house not yet explored. Perhaps it was merely curiosity that pulled her mind from her work, but as she drifted down the hallway, she thought she heard music. The hall grew darker the further she traveled and it suddenly reminded her of the house in the woods. She felt the feather duster slip from her fingers and clatter on the floor. As though driven by instinct, Christine moved further and further, her mind caught up in a strange trance that refused to loosen itself from lucid thought.

_Yes, there is music. I can hear it._

She found a large, darkened staircase that rose up from the main floor to the even darker floor above. Christine mounted the steps and climbed them. The faint, hollow tones of melody wound seductively through the hall. She continued her strange march when she reached the second floor, the thin slip of her hand pausing briefly on the carved banister before she continued to follow the strains of music.

The hall was dark, save only the odd escape of sunlight through betraying heavy drapes. The rays of sunlight fell upon her pale skin and only enhanced the ethereal beauty that for so long had been stifled. One foot before her, then behind, she continued the strange dance that seemed more like a funeral march then anything else. No, it was more like the march of a bride down the aisle, though she held no bouquet in her pale hands, nor did she wear the dress of a bride. Her march carried her towards a groom she did not know, towards a fate that had been sealed even before her birth. She drifted along the hall like an ancient priestess towards the rites of her religion.

_There it is _again, she mused,_ that strange, unearthly music. Oh, how it courses through my veins! Can I ever be remedied of its intoxication? Can I ever be free of it?_ _He's there, inside my mind. A phantom? An angel? I cannot tell. But he is a man. What magic does he weave upon me? What spell does he cast over me? I was made to fall under it. It affects no other like it does me. Oh, how I want to give in, feel my soul carried with his music. But again I stand on this precipice, looking over at the other side, where he stands waiting for me. I have had so many moments that I have wanted to jump across. . .I have needed to jump across. _

Christine passed by several closed doors, never turning her attention away from the alluring music that guided her feet. The moment was almost like her dreams, except for the fact that he was not by her side, guiding her along a path she could not see. The music was growing louder, and she could now make out the gentle and emotion-wrought strains of a violin. The sound had been so familiar, even at a distance, but now it dawned on her the reason for her pull to this particular sound. She had not heard a violin played in such a way since her father.

Tears sprang to her eyes at the gentle melody, a melody which wrapped around her trembling frame like a strong, comforting embrace, and urged her to move like a moth to a flame. She found her fingers resting along the edge of the door now. Lamps lit the room with a soft glow that diffused through the narrow crack of the door. Christine gently pushed it open, careful to avoid the faintest of creaks.

There, illuminated by the soft light permeating the large, ornately furnished room, with its large fireplace and mantle, stood Erik. He was playing the instrument with such devotion that for a moment, she thought he did not know she stood at the door. But she was mistaken. For as she listened to the heartbreaking melody and nearly felt her knees crumble beneath the weight of the notes, he turned around swiftly, laying aside the instrument and standing before her with all of the power and authority of a heavenly legion. He seemed taller now, more powerful in muscle and poise, but then again, perhaps she had grown smaller.

The light played across his finely wrought features and glared off the white mask that hid half of his face. His dark hair was slicked back behind his ears. Erik had abandoned his suit jacket, but he stood before her in dark trousers, a crisp white shirt hidden beneath a rich burgundy waistcoat, and a loosened cravat at his throat.

She must have looked a sight cowering before him as she stood at the door, her modest, dark grey dress playing down the beauty of her features, with messy hair hastily pulled back behind her head. Her eyes must have wavered upon the site before her, as though she were a child having crossed a boundary, and knew that a swift punishment was eminent.

But there was no anger in her maestro's eyes. There was no stern graveness in their emerald depths as he regarded the girl before him.

"Forgive me," she finally managed to utter in such a quiet tone. "I apologize for disturbing you."

She was about to back out of the room, her hand clutching behind her for the doorknob. Erik moved swiftly, closing the door behind her and taking any route of escape away from her. She had whirled around with question in her soft brown eyes.

"Let me leave, Monsieur," she pleaded softly, "and I will not bother you again."

"Christine," he said, uttering her name in the most reverent of tones. "You have not disturbed me, but I wish you to stay for a moment."

She stood rigid, unsure of what she should do as he turned and walked towards the fireplace, leaning heavily upon the mantle.

"Sing something for me," he said abruptly, moving away from the fireplace and leaning against the wall in a part of the room obscured by shadow.

"I would rather not," she responded, bowing her head for a moment.

"I wish it," he interjected. "Now, sing."

"I do not know what to sing," Christine again protested.

"Choose anything," he said, his voice growing angry.

Christine struggled to move herself away from the door and silently slipped into the center of the room. She looked visibly shaken as she stood there, trying to think of a song that might appease him. But there was nothing she could think of. It felt as though she had not sung for years. The songs had suddenly slipped from her mind. But one came to mind, a foreign song that her father had once taught her, and she began to sing, quietly at first but gaining more strength as she carried on.

_She's like the swallow that flies so high  
She's like the river that never runs dry  
She's like the sunshine on the lee shore  
I love my love and love is no more._

_Twas out in the garden this fair maid did go  
A-picking the beautiful prim-rose  
The more she plucked, the more she pulled  
Until she got her apron full._

_It's out of those roses she made a bed  
A stony pillow for her head  
She laid her down, no word she spoke  
Until this fair maid's heart was broke._

_She's like the swallow that flies so high  
She's like the river that never runs dry  
She's like the sunshine on the lee shore  
I love my love and love is no more._

The eyes of brown that had managed on with such expressionless constraint were now wavering with emotion. She could feel her legs begin to buckle beneath her, but she would not allow them to carry her body down in defeat. She would not allow herself to be overcome with sorrow again.

_I cannot let him see my tears again! If I am to be strong in this house, to carry on with my work, I cannot let myself slip back into the torrent of emotions he has stirred in my heart. But, oh God, how I long to feel his arms around me again! How I long to be loved by this man – a man who both frightens and comforts me._

She saw him approach her from the shadows, saw his hand as it reached out for her, hesitated, and then drew back.

_Dear God, how I long to touch her face! To think of how we parted! She must think me a monster for nearly forcing myself upon her. Will she ever trust my intentions again? Will she ever seek comfort in my arms? My love for her is stronger then anything else. She sings of heartbreak, but surely I have done far worse. _

"Christine," he said softly, breaking the silence that had ensued between them. His rich, baritone voice echoed throughout the room, even the slightest of whisper. "Do you not know why I sent you away?"

"You do not need to explain," she said, turning away from him to hide the emotions running rampant in her eyes.

"You feared me," he said, "and I believe you still do. You do not know of the man who has killed. Of the bodies left in the wake of my wanderings. There is darkness in me that cannot be purged. Do you remember the tale of the nightingale and the rose, Christine? The story I once told you?"

She nodded softly.

"Perhaps it is true that the union of the two was wrong. For it could bring only disaster. If the rose knew of the ways of the nightingale, perhaps she would not be so trusting."

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked.

"I still love you," he said, his voice drawing low, "and I will always love you. I know that I can never send you away again. Even if I cannot take you as my own wife, I will keep you under my roof to watch over you."

Her shoulders shook, and for a moment, she feared she would crumble under his words.

"You look ill. Has the memory of me been so horrid in your mind that your health withers?" she heard him ask.

"Please," she finally cried out softly, "do not ask me these questions."

"Would you not be happier living with the Vicomte de Chagny? Surely such a handsome young man would bring back the rose in your cheeks."

"Why do you say these things?" she cried out.

She knew he was slipping back into one of his rages. He had so carefully reigned in his emotions since she had come. Erik had remained cold and aloof.

"I found the letters that he sent to you! So carefully hidden, thinking that he could evade me!"

Christine stood before him, quaking with unnamed emotion as he thrust a small bundle of letters at her. Erik began to explain, seething with anger, the circumstances behind the letters she knew nothing of. Raoul had sent them following her second visit with him at his family's estate. He had tried to hide them in the garden for her to find, but apparently, Erik had been quicker. She never knew of the letters that had come. She tried to tear them from his hands, reading only bits and pieces of the elegantly scripted letters. Letters of affection. Letters offering her a better life amidst wealth and comfort. They were the love letters of a young man.

Tears sprang from her eyes as she continued to read. But Erik, in his anger, had held them tightly from her.

"I did not know he sent these!" she protested.

"And if you did, would you have run to his arms? Would you have given up this meager existence as a servant? Would you have sung with such ardor and devotion that songs of lost love would never fall from your lips?"

"Why do you accuse me of a love I do not have?" she shrieked.

"You always feared me! You always shied away from my hand. It must have seemed like the devil's fiery touch when my hand brushed your hand! Were you thinking of _him_ when I was there? Were you pleading to be released from this monster, hoping only to stumble back into the arms of your noble boy?"

She had grown deathly quiet now, raising herself up to her full height, even though she still looked more feeble and frail then ever.

"I did not love him. I never did. He was a friend to me, and for that, I am grateful. Yes, I did think of him when you would grow angry with me, when you would frighten me. But it wasn't his love that I wanted. I wanted his comfort. He never threatened me or shouted at me. He was a kind, gentle friend. But you drove him away! You shut me away like your prisoner. You grew bitter of feelings I never had."

"Go back to your room, Christine," he seethed.

But she refused. "All I wanted was that comfort. I wanted to be loved. There has been no one since my father who showed such affection. There were times when you would hold me and I felt safer then I had ever felt before. But I was afraid of your violent tempers. You did not hurt me, but I feared you for them. I wanted my angel of music. But he left me."

"A demon he left you," Erik said, having approached her with tension filling every muscle in his tall frame.

"Give me the letters," she said, extending her hand.

"No," he growled. "I will not."

"Give them to me! I want the memory of my friend's words."

"I will not. You will not leave this place. I will not let his words lure you away," he yelled, thrusting the letters into the fireplace with fury.

He turned around to face the tormenter of his dreams. She stood with a strange conviction for a moment. But her fierce determination promptly melted away and left behind a quivering girl with such pain in her eyes. He saw her bite her lip for a moment, her small hands clenched at her sides in anger.

"No words have ever lured me like yours. Do you not even know that?" she cried out, rushing to the door, unlocking it, and hurrying down the hall.

* * *

"Where is Christine?" Meg asked, finding her mother taking tea in a small parlor.

"You have not seen her?" Madame Giry asked, rising as she placed her tea down on the table beside her.

"No," the young girl replied, "she has been gone all afternoon. I thought perhaps she had been caught up with work in one of the wings, but she has not returned for a meal."

Giry glanced outside and noticed the heavy rain that had begun to saturate the green lands around the estate. The skies were grey with cloud, and a heavy mist seemed to cover the land, obscuring the distant trees from all eyes.

"Are her shoes and cloak still at the door?" Antoinette asked faintly, as though suddenly determining her whereabouts.

"I will go and check," Meg replied, hurrying down the hall with a sweep of her gown upon the floor.

Giry followed closely behind. A panic began to rise up within her. She had looked so ill during the past week. If she had run outside into such a downpour. . .

"No, Maman," Meg said, worry playing across her pretty features, "they are gone. You don't think. . ."

"Meg, go tell Charles," Antoinette commanded. She watched Meg hesitate, fear filling her blue eyes. "Go! I will find Count Bellamont immediately."

The young girl hurried down the hall. Anotinette stood still for a moment, her hand trembling at her side. She hurried upstairs, past the doors of countless rooms. She knew he had given explicit instructions not to bother him, but she had little choice. She found him pacing in his study, tension obvious in his back. _What did he say to her? What has he done?_

"Erik!" she called out.

He whirled around, anger flashing briefly on his face. "I thought I gave instructions that I wasn't to be bothered!"

"Forget them!" she shouted, "Christine is gone."

He did not even flinch at the revelation, only sunk back into his pacing. "What of it?"

"For godsakes, Erik, do you not realize how ill she is? I do not know what you said to her. And do not look at me like that. I know that you had a conversation with her. I do not know what you told her, but she has taken off. I fear to think how sick she could become in such a storm. A sickness you brought on!"

"I brought on?" he seethed.

"Do not play a fool with me! You know quite well that she suffers without your presence, without your love!"

"Leave me!" he shouted.

"You will not even help her?"

"Go!"

"If she dies because of you, I will see what everyone has seen before. That you truly are a monster! You took a precious life that her father had so carefully nurtured, and broke it apart with your anger."

He rushed past her suddenly, leaving her behind in a stunned silence.

* * *

Erik opened the door, not caring to grab his cloak before rushing out into the pouring rain. He glanced around hurriedly, like a wolf seeking out the scent of its prey upon the wind. A curt whistle brought his black horse running from the stables. Erik jumped upon its back and urged it forward, following a path along the green hills that no other mortal could trace.

He rode through the biting rain for what seemed like ages before the mists seemed to part and reveal their captive who lay sprawled along the wet grass, her soaked cloak and dress clinging to her shivering body. Her chocolate curls were plastered to her face. She lay on her stomach, with an arm bent beneath her, as though she had struggled to move herself upon the grass like a dying man in a desert. Her breaths were slowing. He could see the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest, each motion appeared too painful for her small body to handle.

Erik slipped down from the saddle and reached her in two strides. He turned her over quickly, finding that her face had grown deathly pale, her lips having lost their red hue. Her eyes were nearly closed but they fluttered open for barely a second before shutting tightly.

"Christine," his voice called out to her.

She shivered uncontrollably. _Why does he not leave me? I want to return to my father. I want to see the heavens that have been hidden from my view. I want an end to this torment! _

But her wishes went unheard. She felt his arms wrapping about her shaking body, pulling her into his embrace. His own shirt was soaked through, clinging to his well-muscled frame. But the heat that resonated from his body was enough to coax her into his arms. She felt him pull her roughly against his chest. Her head slumped against his chest and she remembered feeling the rapid movements of his lungs as they sought out air.

She had fallen unconscious, he noticed. Her white face was buried in the wet folds of his shirt. He called to her again, with more agony in his voice then he had ever uttered before. But she did not respond. He brushed the wet tendrils of hair from her pale face with loving affection. Her body no longer trembled but lay frightening limp in his arms. Erik drew his arm beneath her knees to lift her body from the ground. He found his horse and heaved her up upon its back, quickly following so that he sat behind her. He drew her against him again, hoping that his wretched body could afford some heat to keep her alive.

He cursed himself bitterly time and time again, as the horse raced back to the grey mansion that loomed like a gargoyle in the mist.

* * *

Christine laid in a feverish sleep for nearly three days. Madame Giry and Meg attended her through the illness, but by the third day, they grew fearful about her condition. Erik had hidden himself away during that time, as though denying to himself the circumstances of her sickness. He had written aria after aria, bent over the keyboard of his piano, with a fierce determination in his eyes. He found that often his eyes would drift back to the door, and he would stop to listen.

Late on the third night, a soft knock sounded on his door. Erik pulled himself away from his compositions and loomed in the doorway as Madame Giry explained Christine's illness with concern in her normally calm demeanor.

"She's not improving. I fear she may be getting worse. We should send for a doctor before it is. . .too late."

He nodded wearily. "Very well, send one of the men to fetch him."

Madame Giry hesitated in the doorway. "You have not been down to see her since you brought her back. Perhaps you should. . ."

"See her? She despises me now, I know it," Erik said bitterly.

"You know that is not true," Antoinette said softly. "She calls out your name in the night."

"Surely from a feverish nightmare. I tend to have that affect."

"Fool!" Giry hissed. "I have seen her tears. She calls your name because she needs you. What do you intend to do with her? Lock her up within this house and never speak with her?"

Erik sighed heavily, raking his fingers through the thick, disheveled dark hair that had once been slicked back neatly.

"Go to her, that is all I ask," Giry said gently, her eyes conveying the urgency of her request.

After she had left, he had paced the room for several minutes before finally emerging into the dark corridor beyond the room. He strode down the stairs and continued down the hall until he found _her_ room, at the end of the west wing. He was not prepared for the site before him. Or perhaps he was, but he did not want to admit it. There she was, his angel, atop a heavily blanketed bed. The white quilt had been tossed aside in her feverish state. The white sheets, in equal disarray, were rumpled about her. Only a single sheet lay over her body, which had been clothed in a long, cotton nightgown. Her dark curls were a stark contrast to the paleness of her face and the white kingdom of her bed. They circled her face so reverently, that he could have sworn that he had stumbled upon an angel. The room was still lit with a few lamps. Meg and Antoinette had left them on in their wake.

Erik moved slowly into the room, never taking his eyes from the girl who laid so vulnerable, so deathly ill, in the soft bed. He rounded the corner and came to her side, finding the courage to sit down beside her and watch her as she slept fitfully. Her face was slick with sweat. He could attest for her illness as his hand hovered over her forehead, finally pressing his flesh against hers. Her skin burned with fever. If she had looked sick before, when she had first come to live here, she now looked near death. The skin which already looked so pale was nearly chalk-white. Those soft brown eyes were closed, and her dark lashes were spread upon her pallid cheek. All trace of color was gone from her cheeks. All shades of rose gone from the soft lips, which were now chapped and equally pale.

Her body trembled beneath the single sheet. Erik finally lifted his hand from her forehead and gently pulled the hair back from her face. _My God, what have I done to her? What have I done to my angel?_

Her chest heaved occasionally beneath the single sheet, as though she were wracked with a horrible cough. But only once did a cough actually make it from her lips. His hand sought out hers, finding it twisted within the sheets. The skin was clammy to the touch.

Christine turned slightly in her restless sleep. Her head moved as though drawn towards a warm light. Pale lips parted and a sob issued forth.

"Erik?" she cried out.

"I am here, angel," he said softly, stroking her hand gently.

Her breathing slowed as did the rise and fall of her breast. But a soft whimper sounded from her lips. A violent shiver wracked her small body. Erik hastily pulled up the sheets and quilt, burying her carefully in the thick blankets.

It was pure agony watching his angel deteriorate in such a way. If he could have traded spots with her, he would have done so in a heartbeat. But it was she who lay upon this sickbed. It was she who struggled to live. He could only sit by and watch her health decline. A tear began to fall from his eye and he quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand. He slumped down upon her bedside. There was only one thing he could think of to soothe away the affliction that had gripped her so tightly.

And so he began to sing. So soft, barely a whisper at first, that grew low and gentle in its tones. A soft song of adoration that suddenly inspired him.

_  
Angel I've always loved_

_Stay here on earthly ground_

_Leave not for heaven_

_Though its gates do beckon thee forth._

_Your love I long to have_

_Music I tempt you with_

_Your angel waits here_

_More a man then music's angel._

_Twas a time, you yearned for my voice_

_I was there in hiding_

_I heard your cries_

_Your sorrow and your prayers._

_I did then come to you_

_Revealed the man at last_

_Your heart was hidden_

_In the end, the songbird took flight._

_I long to have your love,_

_Bask in its warm embrace_

_You turn away now_

_Hear the angels up high sing forth!_

_There's a man, who yearns to be loved_

_You alone can help him_

_Fear not his love_

_Eternal and unchanged!_

_Fear not the man on earth_

_Open your heart to him_

_You may be frightened_

_But his love he longs to give you._

_Sleep in my arms tonight_

_Let go of all restraint _

_Let music guide you_

_In my arms your restless sleep ends. _

_Angel, succumb to me. . ._

When he had finished he found that Christine had settled peacefully into a quiet sleep. Her hand was still entwined with his. Gone was the pain on her beautiful features. Replacing discomfort was tranquility. He bent over slightly and met her warm forehead with his lips. Never had the faintest of touches meant so much to him. His angel slept peacefully before him now. Sleep began to claim him too, and it was not until the doctor arrived that he was shaken gently from the mutual haze of sleep that had descended upon them – the rose and the nightingale.

* * *

"She is very ill," Dr. Fontaine said, rising back up after having examined the sick young woman asleep in her bed. "I would blame extreme fatigue and overwork that allowed her to contract such a persistent sickness so easily. She is showing signs of improvement," he said. Eyes brightened throughout the small room. "However," he continued solemnly, "she must be watched day and night until this illness passes, or else it may get worse. I will leave behind the necessary medicines, which should be administered promptly and without delay."

"I understand, Doctor," Madame Giry finally said, noticing that Erik had retreated to Christine's bedside, as though relinquishing control of the matter to the older woman.

"Infections such as these can have devastating effects upon even the young. Careful that she does not catch a chill. If her condition worsens in any way, send for me immediately. I have a few similar cases throughout the area to attend to, but I will not be far."

"Thank you," Antionette said, receiving the small bundle of medicines and ointments.

Doctor Fontaine finished packing his small black medical bag before nodded curtly at the occupants of the room, and pulling his hat on as he left. Charles waited eagerly at the door to show the physician out.

* * *

Christine's condition remained much the same into the following night. Erik returned again to stay with her. His presence seemed to quell the restlessness of her sleep to a certain degree.

He had never been one to rely purely on the care of a doctor. Perhaps he had been jaded by the first one he had ever known, a man who had pursued his own mother. When he saw Christine suffer through constant bouts of fever-induced chills and horrible coughs, he finally made a decision.

Erik removed the covers from her shivering frame, and slipped his hands beneath her frail body. The white nightgown she wore was damp with sweat and her dark hair clung to her forehead. He lifted her carefully from the bed, cradling her in his arms as though one jarring movement might end her life. Shivers ran through her body and he could feel them as her body was pressed against his chest. He held her tightly to him, and her head naturally pressed against his chest for warmth.

_Hold on a little longer, Christine. _

He rushed out of the room with her, nearly knocking over Madame Giry as she made her way towards the room.

"Where are you taking her?"

"I'm taking her to my chambers. I can care for her better there," Erik said curtly.

Antoinette knew better then to question him when his was in this state. She busied herself with cleaning Christine's room, and casting a worried eye towards the door every so often.

He kicked open the already unlatched door to his room and stepped through the darkened anteroom before finding the large bedchamber beyond. The room was so dark, but even in such a place, his eyes easily found what they sought. He was used to the dark. He had lived in the dark for so much of his life.

Erik found the large four poster bed and settled Christine among the thick blankets. He drew the sheets over her shivering body and carefully tucked her in. Here, amidst the darkness of Erik's chambers, Christine fought through the illness that had claimed her weakened body. Unaware was she of the guardian angel that loomed over her bedside every hour, his green eyes shining in the darkness and waiting with infinite patience for her.

Late in the night, she called from the large bed. Erik rose quickly from a chair across the room from her. A large fire had been made in his fireplace, and it heated the room to a comfortable temperature, offering a soothing glow to the normally blackened room.

"Angel!" she called out in her delirium.

_She calls for an angel. She calls for something I am not._

But he drew close to her and knelt by the bed, gently stroking her face as she struggled to open her eyes.

"Shhhh, mon ange," he whispered gently. "Sleep."

"Erik?" his name was a whimper on her parted lips.

"Yes, child, I am here," he replied.

"D-don't leave me," she moaned. "Don't leave me alone again."

_She cries in her delirium. . .but does she really know what she asks for? Does she truly want to remain with this creature?_

He could not deny her pleas for his company. He could never deny her anything. Erik knelt beside her on the bed and held a vigil over his angel.

* * *

**gingerolaf - Thanks for the review! It did help.**

**Marie Phantom - Admit that they love each other. . .nice and easy? Hee hee. Yeah, I love to draw out the angst as long as I possibly can. You know, I get so disappointed with some fics where they jump into bed together only a few chapters in and the story suddenly combusts. There is simply no more interest. **

**Elainejoy - Got any idea where our knights could be hiding?  
**


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N - I just had to get this next chapter out instead of leaving a lot of readers in agony. I think a lot of you will be pleased with the direction of this chapter. Thank you all for waiting so patiently. **

**Chapter 22**

She lay in the dark, nothing to light her way through it, nor stave off the inevitable fear that surrounded her.

"Where am I?" she murmured, voice hoarse with sickness.

There was no sound, no response. Christine struggled to sit up in what felt like a very large bed. Still, no light greeted her as she left the vestiges of sleep behind. _I cannot see! What has happened? Oh God, where am I?_

"Where am I!" she cried out, her voice trembling with fear. "Please!"

She heard a rustle of a garment and realized that someone had entered the room. She heard the striking of a match and the soft glow of an oil lamp as the match met the wick. Christine sighed softly, having feared the worst for her condition. She watched as the warm light spread throughout the large bedchamber. But most of all, she noticed the warm glow that washed over the man holding the lamp.

"Angel," she moaned.

He had set the lamp down on the bedside table, and now knelt beside her on the bed. His chiseled features, long noble nose, and elegantly arched eyebrow filled her field of vision.

"What's wrong, mon ange?" he said softly, his words almost a medicine in themselves. He reached out a hesitant hand to caress her flushed face. Steady fingers brushed across her forehead and he paused for a moment in his actions.

"Your fever is breaking," he breathed.

"Water," she begged softly, "I need water. I'm so. . .thirsty."

He retrieved a pitcher from the dresser and filled a glass for her before settling down beside her and carefully guiding it to her parched lips. Her eyes drooped with fatigue, her body obviously worn out from such a prolonged sickness.

_Thank God_, he thought to himself. There was color in her face now. Her cheeks were flushed with red from the breaking of the fever. A thin sheen of perspiration covered her skin. Christine had put the glass down and almost seemed to be gasping for air.

"I-It feels too h-hot in here," she struggled to say. Her hand had drifted to the neckline of her nightgown in a vain attempt to loosen it.

Erik's eyes wandered with her motion, seeing the creamy skin at her neck, the brushing of her fingers along the flesh. He felt a familiar, but almost forgotten stirring within him, and quickly turned his attention back to the present. He lifted her hair from her shoulders and she relaxed, dropping her head forward and almost sighing contentedly as cool air touched the back of her neck.

"You should rest," she heard him say, in that voice that drew such a myriad of feelings from her heart and body. "You need to gain your strength back."

"I cannot sleep yet," she cried wearily, rolling her head against his strong shoulder. "I feel much too warm."

"I can draw you a cool bath," he said, almost into the curls that rested near his cheek. "Wait here."

He rose quickly and left her there in the darkness. Erik had moved into an adjacent bathroom and Christine heard the sound of running water. This house, unlike many of those in the town in which she had spent much of her childhood and adolescence, had running water and proper plumbing.

The darkness felt like it would swallow her up. She still could not see anything in the darkened room beyond the dark frame of the four poster bed and the soft circle of light from the small oil lamp. In her fatigued state, fear began to creep into Christine's mind. She could not bear being alone in such a foreign place. She could not bear being consumed by such darkness.

"Erik," she whimpered, her voice still shaky. "Erik!"

She heard his footsteps as he moved stealthily back into the room, felt the rush of wind as he hurried to her side, and smelled the intoxicating mix of spices, cologne, and soap as he knelt by her side.

"Christine, what's wrong?" she heard him ask, the voice of her angel the one comfort she could never part with.

"It's dark," she cried softly, "I cannot bear to be alone in the dark."

She felt his arms winding around her weak body and lifting her from the nest of blankets. He cradled her against his chest and she felt her breathing slow as the beating of his heart filled her senses. Erik could sense the change too. She had tucked her head beneath his neck, pressing it against his broad chest. The rush of breath passed her lips tickled the exposed skin at his neck and he felt a shiver run throughout his body.

"Never fear the dark, angel," he murmured gently. "I am here."

Erik carried her gently to the bathroom, careful not to jolt his angel lest her discomfort increase. He set her down upon the floor, still supporting her weight with his arms. She was still too weak to support her own weight, and he could feel the trembling of her legs as she swayed in his arms. A large bath lay before her, filled with water, and smelling of lavender and rose.

"You are still too weak to stand," he said gently, his lips nearly brushing her ear. A shudder ran through her body and she felt her eyes flutter shut for a brief moment. The sound of his voice, the touch of his hand, all were much too pleasant.

There was hesitation in his step, in his hold on her, and he seemed to be debating his next course of action.

"I will fetch Madame Giry," he said. "She can assist you."

"No," Christine muttered softly, seizing the sleeves of his white shirt as he held her. "Please don't leave me."

"Christine," he said, "It would not be appropriate for me to stay."

"I-I don't care," she nearly wept, turning around in his embrace to bury her face in the sleeve of his shirt. "Don't leave. I could not bear it."

He felt such love for the trembling girl that clung to him like a lifeline. How could he deny her anything? How could he deny her his presence if she begged for it so? Finally, he unlatched her fingers from his arms, pulled her gently away from the warmth of his embrace, and turned her around slowly so that her back faced him. He pulled a chair forward from the adjacent room and had her sit down in it.

Christine sat down reluctantly, drawing her clenched hand up to her breast in uncertainty. She heard his unsteady breaths as he moved behind her.

"Can you undress yourself?" she heard him say, his voice having grown low and husky.

"The ties," she motioned behind her neck, "I cannot reach them. Could you. . ."

She felt his fingers upon the exposed skin at the base of her neck, felt them fumbling with the ties of her nightgown, and occasionally brushing against the skin in such frighteningly pleasurable strokes. Now loosened, she felt his hands withdraw from her skin. But the burning of his touch lingered. She could still feel his hand upon her skin. Her breathing had grown erratic now and her chest was visibly heaving.

Christine sat before him, unable to see him as he stood silently behind her. She suddenly felt utterly self conscious and nervous.

"I will not look," he said, as though reading her thoughts. She felt a stirring of wind and heard the rustle of a cloak behind her. Craning her neck ever so slightly, she saw that he had drawn up his cloak to bar his eyes from her state of undress.

Christine slowly and methodically removed the sweat-soaked nightgown and watched as it pooled upon the floor. She felt a cool breeze in the room upon her heated skin and smiled faintly at the relief it brought.

"Angel?" she said faintly, sounding more like a gentle plea then anything else. It was a cry for his company, for his presence, for an assurance that he was still near.

"Come," he said gently but firmly. She felt his cloak about her naked shoulders and felt his hands at her arms, guiding her up from the chair.

She now stood before him, naked and vulnerable to the world, but sheltered in the safety of his cloak. He seemed to linger much too long behind her, as though uncertain of what to do next. Her heart seemed to race now and would not show any signs of slowing. The touch of his hands upon her shoulders, though separated by the thin cloak, was nearly unbearable. She could feel his breath upon the skin of her neck again. Her angel lingered much too closely. Christine felt his finger slide upon her arms. She thought she could endure no more. That her body would fall apart if he caressed her much longer. It was agony, but an agony so exquisite, she thought she would die. This was how he used to make her feel, living in the house in the woods. She felt like she would die from his glance, from his words, but most of all, from his touch.

It was her tremble that shook him from his explicit daydreams. Here was his angel, so vulnerable and frail in his grasp, shaking from an emotion he could not begin to imagine. He had longed to pull the fabric from her skin, to touch the soft contours of her body, and to make her his. Such passion ran so fiercely through his mind that he had to pull away for a moment to regain his steely control.

Christine carefully lifted herself over the lip of the tub and settled in the water, as he followed closely behind her with the cloak to provide a fragile modesty to her state of undress. The skin on the back of her neck was raised in gooseflesh. She had drawn her arms up across her chest, even though she sat in the water with her back to him, shielding what wandering eyes he may have from the soft rise of her breasts.

Another soft breath cooled the skin of her shoulder. She trembled for a moment, almost anticipating the touch of his hand upon her skin. It would come, she knew, it had to. A finger glided across flesh of her shoulder, drawing a shudder like no other. A soft moan fell from her lips, but she dared not turn her head to see the fire that undoubtedly burned in his smoldering eyes.

A shudder. _She cringes at my touch again. I can hear her unsteady breaths, I can smell the fear from her, and I can feel the shudder of abhorrence. A creature such as I has no right touching an angel. But this creature burns for her! This creature has taken a drink from the forbidden cup and will never be satiated again, save for consuming everything in it._

"I will leave you to your bath," he said quietly, his voice nearly quivering with unbridled desire.

* * *

There she was again. Such a beauty to behold! She had emerged from the bathroom, of her own accord, draped in a fresh nightgown and white dressing gown. Her curls shone once again, cascading down her back in impossible beauty. The color that had been lacking for weeks had returned to her face. A rose hue colored her cheeks, and her lips were soft and pink.

Erik felt his heart stir as she entered the room. Her strength was returning now. She no longer needed to lean on him to move about. She would no longer need him at all. Noticing the small table that he had prepared, Christine gratefully slipped into the chair and slowly finished the soup that lay steaming in a white china bowl. She smiled at the warmth of the broth, the warmth that spread through her stomach, and the pleasing taste of food that she had forsaken for what seemed like ages. When she had finished and suddenly noticed him sitting in the darkened corner of his chambers, watching her with strange intensity, Christine rose slowly and stood nervously by.

Erik had lit the room with a few oil lamps and had provided a pleasing glow to the room that had once fallen into darkness. A fire had once again been lit in the large fireplace. Still, she shivered and brushed an uneasy hand over the skirt of her dressing gown.

He watched her closely, saw that she hesitated for a moment and drew an uncertain glance towards the door before returning her unsteady gaze to the large four poster bed. _His_ bed.

"You should return to bed, Christine," he said, his rich voice echoing softly in the room. "I already had the maids prepare your room."

She looked at him for a long moment, those soft brown eyes quivering in the orange glow from the fireplace. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words would not issue forth.

"What is wrong?" he asked, almost crooning.

"Why do you still hide from me?" she asked softly. "Even now, after all that you've done for me, you hide from me in shadow and deny me your presence."

"Surely you don't wish to see the face of a monster," he replied coolly.

She stepped towards him like a reluctant bride and stopped short of the chair in which he sat. "I am not frightened of your face."

Erik did not respond, and she felt emotion welling up beneath her calm exterior. _How could he toy with my emotions like this? Can he not see what it does to me? _

Christine dropped to her knees before him, felt her lips nearly meet the floor, but instead, drew her gaze to the well-polished shoes before her. Like a penitent servant, she bowed on the floor before him, her lovely curls grazing the hem of his trousers. She began to weep, her face hidden beneath the cascades of curls, but he could see her shoulders shake with emotion. He could hear the tremble in that angelic voice. A heart so carefully guarded with walls of steel began to soften and he could not help but pull his angel from the depths of her misery. Hands circled her arms and pulled her up until she sat on bended knees and gazed up at him with sorrowful eyes.

"Why do you not hold me as you once did?" she asked, tearing at his heart with her heartbroken eyes. "Why is there only coolness in your eyes when you look upon me? Do I disgust you that much? Do I disappoint you that much?"

"Christine," he said so softly, seizing her wrists as they tried to beat upon his chest.

"No! I will not be turned away again! I will not be sent away from your presence again! I cannot live without you near. I was dying since you turned me from your house. A prisoner. . .that is what I once was. But no longer. When you sent me away, you did not free me completely. You were always there. . .haunting my mind with your memory and I cried too many nights for your presence! I longed for your embrace," she cried. A sob wracked her thin body. "I wanted the man, not the angel nor the demon. I wanted you!"

He suddenly drew her up from the floor and pulled her to him. Christine fell against him, trapped in the embrace of his arms, upon his lap, as he sat in the armchair. She felt his embrace tighten more assuredly. His legs moved beneath her, pushing her forward so that she now sat between them. Her body instinctively lay back against his strong chest, and she felt his breaths coming rapidly now, nearly matching the merciless beating of her own heart.

The warmth that she felt sitting so intimately in his presence was intoxicating. Her eyes fluttered shut and her lips parted in a strangled moan. A finger looped beneath her chin and turned her head, as he gently pushed her forward before him so she could glimpse his face from the corner of her eyes. His face moved closer to hers, leaning to the side to face hers. She saw the desire in his eyes, felt it as his breath drew gooseflesh along the side of her neck, and she nearly sobbed his name.

Before she could cry out, before she could even move, his mouth descended upon hers. The lips which had mocked her for so long, which had grimaced at her, now claimed hers with such passion that she no longer could hang on to the shred of childlike innocence that she had carried for so long. His hand still cupped her face, holding it as he ravaged her mouth with the hunger of months of unrequited desire. Her lips parted and she felt him deepen the kiss, gliding his tongue along her soft lips before plunging into her mouth. She felt the velvet of his tongue as it glided along hers and nearly moaned into his mouth. Pulling back suddenly, he regarded her with intense curiosity. Her shoulders quaked before him, her breath running ragged as it passed through her swollen lips, and she could not hide the desire that ran rampant through her eyes.

_Desire_, he thought. _ I know what's in her eyes now, for I have seen the same thing in my own! _

"Christine," his hypnotic voice was now filled with desire as it filled her senses. "Become my wife, I beg of you."

His mouth was now upon the exposed flesh of her neck and she moaned softly.

"I will be your wife," she cried out, before turning in the chair, between his legs, to look him fully in his eyes. "But only if you love me."

Something changed in his gaze. A sorrow or relief filled the emerald orbs of his eyes and he fought back some unnamed emotion.

"How could you ever doubt my love?" he cried. "I have loved you ever since I heard your voice."

"And I you," she whimpered.

"Marry me tomorrow, and do not make me wait another day. I must have you beside me. I must feel you in my arms."

She shuddered at his words, at the openness of his desire, for it mirrored her own so clearly.

"I will marry you," she replied, looking up at him shyly before he cupped her face and kissed her goodnight.

"Go to bed, mon ange," he urged her from his lap, rising behind her as she stepped uncertainly away. "Go to bed and dream of nothing but my love for you."

She hesitated and looked up at him with pleading eyes. "I do not wish to be parted from you anymore."

"Christine, if you stay. . .I cannot guard you from what I feel."

"I do not wish for more then your embrace tonight. I want to be yours only when we have said our vows. Please," she cried, her soft eyes so moist with emotion, "Angel, stay with me and hold me. Do not send me to an empty room."

He could not deny her anything. She slipped into his bed, having not removed the dressing gown. She may be a woman, but the fear of the unknown was still upon her. Erik slipped into bed beside her, after having removed his suit jacket, cravat, and shoes. His white shirt hung loosely upon his strong frame. Christine lay on her side, facing away from him as he settled down beside her. She could feel the strength of his body, the intoxicating fragrance of his masculinity, and wanted to surrender to its seduction. But her morals, her convictions, urged her to have strength one more night. And so she sheltered herself in his body, pressing her back into his chest and accepting his embrace as his arms wound around her trembling body.

She felt his lips upon her neck for a moment, as he slighted the skin with an affectionate caress. She felt a contented sigh fall from his lips behind her. Her own breath followed suit and she melted into a sleep that had been denied her for so long.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N - I apologize for the long wait. Life, work, and writer's block got in the way. Fortunately, I managed to finish this chapter before anything extreme happened. I have a question to pose to all of you. I am considering raising the rating to an 'M' specifically for the next chapter. How do you feel about that? I would love input! Also, the next chapter, or if another follows, will be the last. **

**Chapter 23**

He was not there the next morning when she awoke. Nestled beneath the thick, dark sheets of his bed, Christine woke up with the sun in her eyes. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and glanced around in confusion. Erik's room had once been as dark as a tomb. She noticed the heavy drapes that usually blocked out the light from the tall, ornate windows were now cast aside to reveal the glorious sun of a summer's morning.

Christine pulled her legs from beneath the sheets slowly, still feeling the slight ache from being bedridden for nearly a week. Her strength felt renewed and she felt like she might actually make it beyond the door today. _To my wedding._ A flutter in her heart lifted her spirits. She threw back the blankets and bolted out of bed. _Where is he? Where is Erik?_

She glanced around with a worried expression upon her features. A soft knock sounded at the door. Hesitating for a moment, Christine proceeded to answer the call.

"Yes, come in," she called out.

The door opened slowly and revealed Madame Giry's tall, elegant frame. She peered in and saw the young woman standing awkwardly in the room, her hands fidgeting for a moment with the folds of her dressing gown as her dark curls hung in a disarray about her shoulders.

"Madame Giry," she said, sounding surprised in the least.

The older woman slipped inside and closed the door behind her. She walked slowly towards Christine and paused before her before a small smile gripped her normally firm mouth.

"I am so glad to see you well again, my dear," she said. "We were all very worried."

"I feel much better," Christine replied quietly.

They shot awkward glances at one another before Giry finally spoke.

"Erik has told me that you are to be married today," she said flatly.

Christine blushed slightly, bowing her head in embarrassment. She spoke with the softest of voices. "Yes, that's right."

"I was worried," Antoinette began, moving a step closer, "when he brought you up here and refused to let me come see you. I know much about him, and there is much that I don't know. I worried for your safety. . .you know the rages that can consume him."

"I know," Christine replied.

"You love him," Antoinette said after a pause, "I can see it in your eyes."

"I do," Christine replied softly, her eyes moving up to meet Madame Giry.

"Do you want to marry him?" she asked.

"Yes," Christine replied, fidgeting again out of nervousness. "I cannot imagine being parted from him ever again. And yet. . ."

"What?"

Christine met her eyes once more. Antoinette noticed the fatigue in the young woman's brown eyes. A blush had risen to her cheeks and she had turned her head away in embarrassment. How strangely proper she looked in this room now. How elegant she looked, as though she truly were the lady of the house.

"What is it?" Giry repeated, taking Christine's hand in her own and forcing her to stand before her.

Christine glanced up at Madame Giry in reservation, biting her lip briefly. "The way he looks at me, the way he speaks to me. . .I know he wants me," she explained candidly, if not nervously, "but what if I disappoint him? I am just barely a woman. I have never. . ."

Giry's grip tightened reassuringly on hers and a coy smile seemed to tug at her otherwise firm lips. "My dear, I've tried to bring you up the best I've been able since your father died. I can give you no better assurance then to say that Erik will not be disappointed with you, and that you should regard yourself more then just a mere servant. When I first heard you sing with your father, I knew that there was more potential in you. Your life has been guided by an invisible hand. Perhaps we have not seen it before, but you were meant to journey this path, to end up here."

Madame Giry crossed over to one of the large windows and gazed out with unfocused eyes. "Erik is a man that has loved no one. Save one person. . .you. I have seen a change in him. A change brought on by you. There is good in him. I was not sure of it many years ago. Oh yes," Giry said, noticing the darkening of the young woman's eyes, "I saw the deaths that had coincidently occurred in his wake. I knew much of his time in Persia, when he worked as the court assassin. I knew of his terrible anger, and I persisted to never provoke it. But I have not seen that side of him for many years. I believe it has been replaced. . .by love. He loves you so strongly, that it has tempered his darkness."

"Why does it fill me with such fear to love him?" Christine asked softly.

Giry turned her head from the window and smiled faintly. "You know very little of men. But you will find that love can overpower fear. Do not be afraid to love him, Christine. In turn, do not be afraid to let him love you."

Christine turned away for a moment and wrestled with the anxiety in her heart. This afternoon, she would walk down the aisle that was laid before her. She would meet _him_ at the end. She would proclaim vows of love for a man that she loved too deeply for words. The thought that her angel would always be with her warmed her frightened heart.

* * *

The day had passed quickly. She never stopped to notice the bustle of activity that had occurred around her. Even as she stood in her own room, draped in a long, elaborate white wedding dress so carefully tailored to her shape, her mind was a million miles away. Even as her dark ringlets were piled atop her head, diamond earrings placed on her ears, and the finishing touches of the veil completed, Christine could not pull herself from the dream she had become ensnared in.

She did not see him at all that day. It was traditionally bad luck for the groom to see his bride before the wedding, but she had wished more then anything to see him, to hear his gentle assurances, to feel his warm embrace, and most of all, to listen to the sound of his voice as it lulled her in song. Christine finally glanced down at the lovely dress, remembering the thinness of her body after weeks of illness. But she did not feel so dreadful anymore. The frailness of her body only added to the beauty of the bride.

Her mind wandered again as she was escorted from the halls of the great house, tucked into a carriage with Madame Giry and Meg, and transported to a small chapel. A chapel. _Her _chapel. Christine's eyes fastened upon the rustic building that had once been her home for months. Memories began to flood back of the peace she had found there. Just as she was about to open her mouth and speak, she saw the jovial face of Sister Catherine, as she emerged from the small church and hurry towards the carriage.

Madame Giry and Meg emerged from the carriage first, allowing the driver room to help Christine down, decked out in all her finery. The nun's hands were clasped together in joy.

"My dear!" she exclaimed. "I thought I would never see you again. It was an unexpected surprise to hear of your upcoming marriage to Count Bellamont."

"As it was to me as well," a small flicker of a smile tugged at Christine's lips as she descended from the carriage.

Catherine embraced her briefly, careful not to crease the lovely dress that adorned the radiant young woman. There was paleness to her features, as though she had suffered through illness recently, but a healthy glow was returning to the cheeks white as snow. Her soft brown eyes, concealed under long lashes, were filled with a strange happiness that Sister Catherine had never seen in her before. _No_, she thought to herself. _Perhaps it is the same look of joy I saw in her eyes when she sang mass. She is no longer the girl I tended to. She is a woman now. What events have transpired since we last parted? What life has she endured after my care?_

"Come," the nun said graciously, "your future husband awaits you." The nun placed a lovely bouquet of red roses in her hands and kissed her cheek with affection.

Christine looked up at the doors of the small church. They had seemed so rustic and modest before, but now they seemed to loom before her with the almighty power of God. She felt her heart tremble. Her feet nearly drew back in reluctance, but she felt the gentle hand of Madame Giry upon her arm, and she glanced over to find the woman's expression warm and comforting.

"Come, child," she said softly. "No need to get cold feet. I will lead you to him, as your father should have. But don't cry today, Christine. He is here, watching over you as you make your way down the aisle. He is watching and smiling down upon his beautiful daughter. Did he not tell you of the angel of music?" Giry offered a rare smile, brushing a tear away from the corner of Christine's eye. "He has sent such a creature. He has sent this man."

"My angel," Christine whispered, nearly inaudibly, as she moved forward towards the doors.

The doors parted and she followed Giry's lead through the small foyer and to the inner doors that opened into the chapel. Sister Catherine opened the inner doors, beaming with joy as she beheld the vision that floated towards her. The chapel was quiet, the pews nearly empty, but that did not matter. She preferred it this way. _He_ preferred it this way. At the end of the aisle, with a heavy bible thrown open upon the wooden alter, the priest stood with a solemn expression on his aged face. His gaze softened at the hesitant entrance of the bride.

Giry began to fall back, allowing Christine to lead the way slowly down the aisle, which had been littered with rose petals. Red rose petals. A strangely familiar man sat in a pew to one side, turning his head as she slowly approached. A broad smile fled his lips as he saw the young woman approach. Nadir Khan smiled and inclined his head softly, his jade eyes flashing briefly upon hers before she turned her attention to the other side of the aisle. Meg Giry sat upon the other side, dressed in a pale blue dress, her blond hair adorned with small white flowers and pulled back at the nape of her neck. She offered a sweet smile to her friend as she passed.

Christine's gaze rose again, this time moving ahead to the end of the journey. A man stood at the front, waiting patiently as she slowly made her way to the end of the rose-strewn aisle. Never before had he looked so handsome, so breathtaking in both beauty and strength. Tall and powerful in his stance, Erik was dressed in the finest of suits. His waistcoat was a dark red, matching the color of the roses. A white cravat was neatly pinned at his throat. Adorning his face, as she had become so accustomed to, was a white mask. There in all his glory, stood her phantom, her angel, and her love.

He had been glancing away, lost in thought, a look of concern almost changing his solemn expression, as though thinking his bride would never come. But as he looked up, his eyes filled with such adoration that Christine thought she could no longer move her feet before her. With one look, he could undo her. With one glance of his brilliant green eyes, she could completely succumb to him.

Never had he seen something so beautiful. Never had he dreamt that God would allow him such an angel. But here she was, floating softly down the aisle, wearing the dress that he had so lovingly chosen for her. The white gown skimmed the floor in billowing folds of silk. It fled behind her in a long, delicate train trimmed with silver and gold embroidery. Upon the bodice, which so complemented her trim waist and modest bust, the embroidery continued its delicate path in a design akin to leaves and stems of ivy. Her chocolate curls were piled loosely atop her head and a soft, sheer veil was drawn over her features, heightening the illusion of an angel. The red roses that adorned her bouquet only enhanced the redness of her soft lips.

It felt like an eternity as they studied one another, but Christine finally drew up alongside the man that would soon be her husband. She had neglected to notice Madame Giry draw away and take a seat beside her daughter, clasping her hands in expectancy. Christine glanced up at Erik, finding that his eyes had locked onto hers. She could not break her gaze from him. His eyes, so intense, so unavoidable, seemed to draw her in. She could barely concentrate on the words of the priest as the wedding proceeded. Her mind returned to the present only when she heard Erik say 'I do' in that heavenly voice. She heard the vows directed towards her, heard the vows to comfort and love him all the days of her life, and as she looked up at him again in her usual shy manner, the words fell from her lips without hesitation.

She saw his eyes flicker with emotion and before she could react, his lips descended upon her own, drawing her mouth into a passionate kiss. Christine felt her body tremble, her legs grow weak, but he gently drew an arm about her waist.

"I love you," he whispered as he nestled his head beside her ear.

Her fingers tightened on the sleeve of his suit jacket. "I love you," she replied, just as softly.

* * *

She could not remember the events as they drove back from the chapel. It was as though she had descended into dream. Surely this could not be real. She was not Erik's wife! She was not the newly named Countess Bellamont! But every time she glanced over at her new husband, felt his hand tighten around her own slender hand, she knew that it could not be a dream. He was real.

They arrived at the estate by supper time. Already, a large feast had been prepared for the small wedding party. The conversation was cheerful, the laughter a welcome sound, and Christine took pleasure in seeing the people she loved together.

Later that evening, after Nadir had departed and Madame Giry and Meg had retreated to their rooms, Christine found herself suddenly alone. She glanced around, looking for Erik, but somewhere during the course of the conversation, he had slipped out. She was sitting in the parlor beside a warm fire, having forgotten the fact that she was alone, and of the hour.

_Why is he not with me? This is our wedding night. Have I offended him somehow? _She rose abruptly, sweeping her hands down the rich burgundy dress she had worn since returning to the estate. She walked slowly down the corridor, finding her own room still open and inviting as she stopped in the doorway. _Do I remain here? I am so naïve! I know nothing. But why do I feel frightened all of a sudden? Why does my body quake inwardly? Oh, dear Lord, I do not know what to do! _She made to prepare for bed. _Perhaps he is busy tonight. I will sleep in my own bed._ Christine changed from her dress into a simple nightgown and drew her thin robe overtop, feeling a draught in the room.

The sound of music, very faint due to the size of the house, began to drift into her hearing. Christine felt her limbs stir, her body comply, and she moved again towards the door. She hesitated as she left the room, glancing down the hall and towards the staircase from where the music was issuing. Her bare feet moved soundlessly upon the floor. She scaled the staircase quietly and found herself in the familiar darkened wing on the second floor.

The music wove its way through the turns in the corridor. Christine skirted her way through the hall, careful to not disturb any of the many valuables so carefully displayed on tables of hung from the walls. Only the soft glow of candelabras, affixed to the walls evenly along the hallway, lit her path. The warm, orange glow swept across her pale features and warmed the depths of her soft brown eyes.

_He is playing the music of his opera. I know that song. How could I possible forget the music that haunts my dreams? Is he not aware of what it does to me? _She continued on, with widened eyes, grasping along the wall as she made her way towards the door to the music room. A light shone from beneath the closed door. She hesitated again before placing her small hands on the handle and quietly opening the solid wooden door.

There he was, his back turned to her as he sat hunched over the keyboard of his piano, thrusting out the notes with a strange ferocity. But as he moved into the gentler melodies, his body seemed to sway with such grace and tenderness. The music felt like the gentle touch of a lover.

_Dare I disturb him in such a state_, she pondered. _I am his wife now. Should I not go to him? _Again her heart faltered, but she moved soundlessly into the room. He was moving into the violent swell of the opera's climax. The rhythm of the music was intoxicating, and she suddenly felt her eyes begin to flutter, as though her mind was forcing her into a state of suspended bliss. The music had once been terrifying to her. She had been completely unaware of its intentions, of its power. But now. . .now, she understood. She felt the desire coursing through her body. So powerful were the notes, the melody, she nearly sank to the floor. Her hand caught his shoulder as her legs buckled and he stopped playing, swirling around abruptly and seizing her arms before she fell.

_Those eyes of fearsome green, they seem so dark right now_, she thought. _Where is the endearing gaze of my angel? _He was clutching her arms, holding her at a distance with a look of surprise, but also of understanding. They burned.

"My love?" he said, his voice so compelling, so alluring.

"I did not know where you were," she cried out softly, not knowing where the emotion sprang from, but feeling it wash over her.

"Do not cry, mon ange," he whispered, brushing a tear from her eye, "I will never leave you alone. Forgive me."

Christine's eyes drifted to the piano for a brief moment before returning to his. "Why do play that piece?"

His grip seemed to tighten for the briefest of moments before he rose up from his chair and seemed to tower before her. How she quaked! _I have frightened my poor angel again. If only she knew of the passion that surges through this carcass before her! It is almost unbearable. But I will not force her to endure it. I will not force myself upon my young bride. _

Christine looked up at him, her eyes suddenly fixing so poignantly upon his as though she could not bear to look away. Her chest was rising and falling, her cheeks flushed, and her pulse racing.

"I play for you," he said evenly and lowly. "I wrote it. . .for you."

"But there is so much passion in it, so much anger, but something else as well," she said, her voice drifting off on the last word.

His gaze dropped to her lips momentarily.

"Christine," he began, "I realize what this night means. But I do not expect you to come to me unless you wish it. We married so quickly. I will not hold you to the ways of marriage."

"Your music," she responded, ignoring his words and wetting her lips, "is like nothing I have ever heard before." Her voice had drawn so quiet now, as though she feared someone else would hear the words that were about to fall from her lips. "It frightened me once. A part of me still fears it. But I feel as though I will drown in it. I cannot fight it any longer. There is something dark about it. Something that reminds me of you."

Erik looked away for a moment, but when he returned his gaze, it was heated beyond comparison.

"When you used to play, and when you play now, I feel as though I am surrendering to you. I hear your voice in my mind and I-I feel your touch upon my skin. I want nothing else. Nothing else will do," she admitted quietly. Her eyes drew up to his again. "My soul cries for you! My. . .body. . .aches for you!"

She stood before him, her liquid eyes wavering as they remained fixed upon his.

"Tell me what to do," she cried out in earnest. "Teach me! You once taught me to sing. Teach my heart now. I-I'm afraid. Take me. . .teach me."

She felt his finger beneath her chin, finding that her gaze had slipped from his during the course of her plea, and felt him lift her head. Christine was afraid of what she would find in his eyes, but her fears were unfounded. There was only love in his eyes, only tenderness, albeit the naked desire that he could never quite hide, even with his cool façade. His other hand drifted to cup her face as his finger traced a gentle path along her jaw. She released an unsteady breath through her parted lips.

"Close your eyes," he said.

She looked up at him in alarm for a moment.

"Trust me," he said softly, "close your eyes."

Darkness surrounded her. She could only hear the richness of his voice now. He circled her, his touch suddenly fleeing her face. She felt suddenly alone and her head turned to follow his movements sightlessly.

"Erik!" she called out.

"Hush my love," he said gently. A breeze stirred behind her and she could feel his presence, though he did not touch her.

She suddenly felt his hands on her arms. Christine jerked at the touch, remembering the effect he had on her. His touch was gentle, and he urged her forward. She stumbled forward and allowed him to guide her until she found herself seated on the piano bench. Erik moved to sit beside her and suddenly his hands were upon the keys, playing not the crashing and rhythmic scores of Don Juan Triumphant, but a more gentle, stirring, and heartbreaking melody. With eyes still tightly shut, she found herself prompted by the music and felt her body sway gently. The sound so exquisite and so harmonious, she did not realize what it lacked until he blended his voice with the notes.

_Have I ever heard something so glorious before? Have I ever heard a voice like his before? I feel as though I will die when it ceases. And when it is raised in song, I cannot pull my mind from its power. I cannot resist. I surrender when he sings. I surrender my mind, my heart, and my body. I am his. I will always be his. _

While he sang his song, his mind turned with the words she uttered only moments before. _Take me. . .teach me! _She wanted him to teach her of love? The idea was almost preposterous. He had never been loved before, nor had he loved anyone except her. He was the last person she should have turned to. But his role as her maestro and her teacher had prompted him to take the lead. If they must both learn, he would be the one to move forward. _I must have my angel completely. There is nothing for us but destruction if we do not join. We were broken from the start. Only when we are one can we truly find peace. I cannot resist her any longer. I cannot stifle my feelings and hide them within my soul, for it is full. My body aches for hers. My soul longs to entwine itself with hers. _


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N - Wow. This was indeed the most difficult chapter to write. I wanted to write something to cater to all of the readers, without stepping on too many toes. In the end, I decided that I just have to write what I feel this chapter should be. So, if you like, great. If you don't. . .well, c'est la vie. But I think I managed to keep the story from going into uninhibited smut. I feel that the story progressed as naturally as it could have. Anyways, I am planning one more chapter to tie off the story. This won't be the end just yet. **

** For those of you who don't want to read the love scene, I have inserted a warning sign before. I have raised the rating to an M, but based on my own reading experience with POTO fanfic, I think the scene is a mild M if not a high T.**

** I hope you enjoy!   
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**Chapter 24**

His voice was heartbreaking in its soaring heights and baritone lows. Christine felt that she had never truly appreciated it until now. Now, with her sense of sight temporarily barred from influencing the other senses, she felt his voice wrap around her. There was such darkness, such passion, in his singing. When his voice dropped to such incredible lows, plowing through a degree of masculinity that none other seemed to possess, she felt a shudder throughout her body as she sat beside him. But then it would rise from the depths of hell and wrap about her mind like the seductive serpent in the garden. _A whisper, a growl, no. . .his seduction is more primal then that. _

Then, through the barrage of music, she heard his voice as he commanded her to sing. How could she refuse such a demand? How could she disappoint her angel when he had poured out his soul? Eyes that had remained so tightly shut now began to open hesitantly, and she sought out the music before her. Her voice then began to sing the lines that he had so carefully crafted for her. Lines she had never sung before, but which she had seen scrawled on the scattered music sheets.

_Strange,_ she thought coherently for a brief moment, _how easy it is to sing, as though the words were made only for me. I made my wedding vows earlier, but these vows, these confessions, are much darker. Today I gave him my hand in marriage in the sight of God. Now, I pledge much more. I give him everything with these words I sing. I give him my soul, to guide and to guard. I give him my mind, but then again, he has always possessed that. I give him my body, but it burns only for him and no other. _

Erik's voice suddenly entwined itself with hers. Joined together in unison, their voices soared to incredible heights. Mated, the nightingale and the rose produced an offspring that was so strange and unearthly in it beauty.

She though she could endure no more. Could one die in such ecstasy? So utterly in his clutches now, with his voice being the talons that pinned her down, she could fathom nothing else beyond the burning realm of the world he had created in the room. Her body was giving out. She could feel the weakening of every muscle, every fiber of her being, as she completely succumbed to him. Her small frame slumped slowly against his, a pillar of strength and power poised so powerfully beside her. Her slender hand reached out to clutch at his shoulder for support. _I am drowning_, she cried inwardly. _I am drowning in his music, and I want to die!_

Erik must have heard her inward pleas, if not felt the fall of her body beside his. He had quit playing and turned slightly on the bench as he braced her body with his own. Her chest was heaving as it sought out the air that had suddenly fled her lungs. The soft brown pools of her eyes seemed glazed with emotion. She found that her fingers were now clutching at the shoulders of his suit jacket, refusing to let go.

"Erik," his name slipped from her lips, sounding more like a plea then anything else.

He needed no further prompting as he brushed back the curls that fell across her face, and lowered his lips to meet hers. She moaned softly as his lips brushed hungrily across hers. His arms had wound around her back now, hands clutching her tightly, yet gently, to him. She could feel his pauses as he kissed her, when he would pull away slightly to look upon her face as though gauging her reaction. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted and swollen, and he gently cupped her face with one hand, running his thumb across her cheek and lips before descending upon her once more.

Erik pulled away again and she opened her eyes, her brow creasing in protest. Christine cried inwardly for his affections to resume. But his noble brow, half obscured by the white mask, was drawn in turmoil. He made to move away from her, sliding further away from her on the bench, but she reached out and caught his arm.

"No, please," she cried out, barely a whisper, a tear glistening in the corner of her eye.

"Do you truly want this?" he asked softly, his voice low and almost mournful. His hand had lifted itself from his side and was now pointing to the white half mask.

"You are my husband now," she replied. "I love you. I don't care. In fact. . ."

Christine moved closer to him once more and lifted a trembling hand to the mask. He watched, almost fearfully, as her hand fluttered across the mask. But his eyes closed as her fingers coiled around the edge of the mask, and gently pried it from his face. Erik sat motionless as the cool air hit his exposed cheek, malformed and horrid as it was, and dried the tear that had slipped from his eye.

He felt a hand touch the deformed side of his face, hesitantly at first, before gently caressing the flesh with tender fingers.

"Don't hide from me anymore," he heard her say quietly. "Do not hide yourself when I am laid bare before you."

He felt her lips upon his cheek and suddenly a shuddering breath escaped his mouth. She felt it upon her own skin as he bowed his head, tickling the flesh of her neck. He seemed to stay that way for a long while, breathing heavily as she held him in her embrace and pressed her face into his shoulder.

"Erik," his name was a gentle plea upon her lips. She had pressed her face further into his shoulder, as though hiding from the world around her. "Make me yours," she whispered.

He drew back and again cupped her delicate face in his hands as he gazed into her eyes. She could not pull herself away from the burning emerald eyes before her. "Is that truly what you want?" he asked again.

"I only know that I never want to be parted from you again," she murmured. Then, with a shamed look upon her lovely face, she continued. "Though, I am afraid."

His hands urged her face up once more until she locked onto his gaze. "Never be afraid, my love," he said gently. "I love you more then anything. Though I have not taken a wife before, I am not completely ignorant of the ways of a husband and wife. Do you not see the devotion that rests in my eyes? Do you not see the love that I have carried for so long?"

"I see it," she said softly, a gentle smile tugging at her lips.

Erik pulled her up from the bench, holding her at a distance as though to study her – the elegant rose about to give herself to the nightingale. He could see her quaking now, shivering in the thin nightgown and robe that barely hid her beauty from his piercing gaze. Erik pulled her close, as though gathering her to him in a strange, silent dance. She felt his breath upon her neck again as he turned her around and pressed her back against his chest. Her eyes had fluttered shut for a moment. _What more could his touch possibly evoke in me, if only his breath upon my skin stirs such a feeling? _

"I have desired you for so long," she heard him say, his voice strained in a strange, sensual manner. "I have dreamt of you night after night, of holding you like this, and of feeling your skin against mine."

A soft moan fell from her lips.

"Have you dreamt of me, mon ange?" he asked.

Christine remained in his arms, her chest heaving for air, eyes still closed, as he gently raised her arms over her head and ran his long fingers down her arms. They stopped at her sides, her arms still raised but having lowered behind her, wrapping behind his head. His hands trailed along her sides, daring to move forward before finally splaying across her stomach and holding her firmly against him.

"My love," he repeated in her ear. "What dreams do you have?"

A soft shudder ran along her spine. Christine could take the agony of his caresses no more. "I dreamt of you every night," she cried out. "Every night," she moaned.

"Do not be afraid," he said softly, feeling her tremble in his embrace. "Tell me."

"I dreamt I was standing in the hall. It was dark and I couldn't see anything beyond the pale light of a moon beyond a window. I was alone, afraid. But suddenly there was a presence in the dark. _You_ were there. You were always there. You held me in your arms. Sometimes you were gentle, and other times, I was afraid of you. Of your darkness."

He had turned her around again to face him, looking down upon her with darkened eyes as he listened to her revelation.

"But I did not want you to leave despite it," she continued, looking up at him with urgent eyes. "You cannot imagine the nights I spent in agony, wishing that the dreams of you were real. That I really was held in your arms, that I was in your bed, even though the darkness frightened me and your eyes seemed to glow like a wolf's. I woke up many mornings, in agony, having you torn away from me."

"Christine," he said, his voice husky, "what did you feel when we were together?"

A soft blush rose to her cheeks and she wanted to pull away from embarrassment, but he held firm to her arms and prevented her from turning away. She looked up at him for several moments, anguish filling her eyes briefly. But she realized that she would never be able to evade him. He would learn of everything eventually. A part of her wanted him to know. "I wanted nothing else," she said faintly, desire clouding her eyes. "I felt as though I would die if I didn't feel your touch, feel you pull me against you, and feel. . .feel your hands on my body."

A soft rumble sounded in his throat. They stood there, gazing at one another for a moment before Erik resumed his caresses. He slid his hand up her side, brushing the side of her breast with dexterous fingers. A sigh slid from her mouth.

"Tell me what you want now," he whispered in her ear.

"Erik," she breathed, feeling his hands dip into the small of her back and pull her against him tightly. She could suddenly feel his desire and her eyes shot open in revelation.

"I want. . .you," she moaned. "Please. . .my angel, I beg you."

Christine felt his arms suddenly beneath her, lifting her up into his strong embrace. He carried her swiftly from the room and into the darkened hallway, lit only by the dim light of candelabras. She had once been afraid of this dark corridor. It felt haunted not only by a phantom, but by countless spirits. Now, she could not feel that fear any longer. As he made his way down the hall, she could feel his heart racing and his unsteady breaths as he held her tightly against him. It seemed to take an eternity to reach their destination.

"Erik," she cried out softly. Erik looked down upon her face with darkened eyes. A strange smile fell upon his face. He rarely smiled, but now there was something even more enticing about the expression. It was dark, but it matched the darkness he had kindled in her heart.

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**Warning - Leave now if you don't wish to read the revised rating material.  
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The door to his room was quickly closed behind them. He carried her soundlessly across the dark room, lit only by the bright rays of a full moon. Erik put her down before the bed, leaving her to stand in the shadow in expectancy. He drew away from her once more into the shadows, and she trembled for a moment.

"Erik?" she called out in an anguished whimper.

He moved once again into the light, having divesting himself of the suit jacket and cravat he had worn. Clad only in his white, unbuttoned shirt and dark trousers, he circled her for a moment while she tried to hold in her shuddering breaths. He did not leave her devoid of his touch for long. His hands were upon her shoulders, his lips upon her skin, traveling along her neck. His fingers found the neatly ruffled edge of her nightgown and began to slide it down her shoulder. A rush of breath fled her lips when she felt his lips upon the tender flesh of her shoulder. They moved warmly across her skin, claiming every inch of it.

Christine felt her legs beginning to weaken beneath her body, and her head to swim with his intoxicating ministrations. Before her legs could buckle, before her body could slide to the floor, she felt his strong arm wind around her waist and press against the small of her back. He pulled away for a moment and regarded her in the darkness with glowing eyes. She seemed to tremble as he looked upon the beauty before him. To her, she saw the powerful presence of her angel, shadow cloaking his strange beauty from her wandering eyes.

Erik turned her around gently, still clutching her waist. He tenderly slipped the thin robe from her arms and allowed it to pool upon the floor in a shower of silk and lace. His other hand worked skillfully at the ties of her nightgown until it laid bare her back. She felt his breath upon her skin and again, her eyes fluttered closed in response, her lips parted in anticipation. Slowly, he lowered the gown from her shoulders. She moved to lift her arms to her chest as he stood behind her. But he gently seized her wrists and lowered them to her sides. The sleeves of her gown fell down her arms and slipped from her hands. The bodice of the nightgown descended as well, slipping past her waist and pooling upon the floor. She was vulnerable now, nothing hiding her shivering frame from his inquisitive, burning gaze. Even now, turned away from his eyes, she could feel them burning upon her skin, traveling the length of her.

Erik turned her around gently and smiled faintly as she tried to hold onto the last shred of propriety she had – her hands clutched to her chest, hiding the objects of her femininity from his penetrating gaze. She looked up at him, her eyes large and liquid in the moonlight, her dark curls strewn around her shoulders, her skin glowing with a strange unearthly light. Surely, no angel could exceed her beauty. No creation of heaven could come close to her perfection. But her only flaw, her only sign of mortality, was the single tear that had fallen from her eye. He gently brushed it away.

"I love you," she cried out softly.

"Oh, my love," he replied almost hoarsely, stroking the side of her face gently. "I love you more then you will ever know."

"I am yours," she whispered in the dark, moonlight glinting off her eyes.

His lips captured hers as his hands gently lowered her hands. Erik pulled her closer to him, her breasts pressed against his white shirt. His lips drifted from her mouth again, trailing down her jaw.

"My angel," she moaned softly.

His head descended upon her neck and she found her hands weaving through the dark locks of his hair. His arms moved about her again, lifting her lithe body from the floor and carrying her to his bed. Erik placed her down amongst the blood red sheets with such care. Never had something so beautiful willingly given itself to him. Nothing so lovely had ever chosen him.

The brush of his lips across her flesh resumed. She moaned softly as his hands brushed over her breasts, causing her back to arch into his touch. He could see the desire in her heavily lidded eyes. The same look was undoubtedly in his. A shiver ran up her spine at the sight of her angel. _So beautiful in his own way, so exotic, and so passionate_. Her slender fingers moved across his chest and she looked up at him again, pleading silently to not be alone in her vulnerability. He slowly stripped the white lawn shirt from his body, dropping it behind him on the floor. Christine looked upon him in awe, running her smooth fingers hesitantly across the tightly woven muscles, noting modest smattering of dark hair that graced his strong chest. His eyes closed at her touch, and a small smile flickered upon her lips.

Erik could take no more of it. He was upon her once more, claiming her lips with his own. Her hands had slid along his back, clutching uncertainly at his strong frame. She could feel him move against her. Eyes of soft brown opened slowly. The length of his body was pressed against her. She felt his hands slide along her side, grazing her breast, before continuing along her hip. They moved around to cup her behind, pulling her roughly against him.

"Erik," she gasped.

Only the fabric of his trousers separated them, but she could feel the hardened flesh beneath, straining against the barrier. With every caress, every mere stroke of her lips upon his, his hips bucked against hers. The need that had once frightened her, that had revealed itself during the ardor of Don Juan Triumphant, was now too overpowering. She was consumed with it, utterly drowning in it. She felt the sensation pooling beneath her stomach. Every time he moved against her, the sensation grew, until she could bear it no more.

"Erik," she cried out softly. "My angel. . .I need you. End this torment. Please."

He had drawn away from her for a moment, removing his dark trousers in the shadows of the room. When he finally stood before her, displayed in all his earthly glory, the glow of the moon softly illuminating his strong, lean body, she felt her desire falter for a moment. A soft blush rose to her face as her eyes traveled along his body.

Erik moved towards her again, as though sensing her hesitancy, and drew her into his arms.

"What do you know of the way of husbands and wives?" she asked innocently, a slight tremble in her voice.

He seemed to smile in the dim light. "The shah had many concubines. They were not as concerned with privacy as our world is." Again, his emerald eyes searched hers for a moment. "Do not be afraid, my love," he said, brushing back a lock of her hair.

Erik moved above her, his lips descending upon hers again and consuming them in a kiss so deep, the fear began to melt away from her mind. A hand brushed down her body, grasping her from behind again and pressing her gently along his length. She moaned softly, never having imagined she could feel this way. A growl sounded in his throat as her hips met his, thrusting against them in blind need. His hand moved to dip between her thighs, and she cried out as his hand grazed the flesh that no man had ever touched. _Such exquisite agony, _she thought. _Oh dear God, Erik. I will die. I most certainly will!_

Her head had fallen back against the pillow, mouth parted, and eyes fluttering. "Erik," she moaned. "I feel as though I will die. Only you have ever made me feel this way."

His fingers probed her flesh gently, seeking the knowledge that she would be ready for him. They dipped into the soft folds of flesh as she moaned again, her hips involuntarily thrusting against his hand. He found the source of her womanhood, having only the knowledge of books to guide him, and gently dipped a finger into it. His beloved angel moaned again, her eyes having opened in surprise at the unfamiliar touch. Christine looked up at him, his eyes more dark then she had even seen. Sheer, unmasked desire coursed through the green eyes that burned through her.

"Tell me what you want," he said, voice husky from their exertions.

"Erik, I. . ."

She felt him stroke her more deeply and a low moan fled her lips.

"What, Christine," he seemed to seethe, "what do you want?"

"You," she breathed, glancing up at him with intoxicated eyes.

He had grasped her legs and lifted them over his, so that they came to rest along the back of his legs. His lips were upon hers once more, and she could feel his unsteady breaths. She suddenly felt him at her entrance, felt him grind against her for a moment, prolonging the torture that was raging in her body. Before she could think, before she could cry out, before anything, he moved within her in one smooth stroke. He stopped for a moment, pulling back to glance down upon her face.

Pain filled her features for a moment, her chest heaved with breath, and she finally looked up into her angel's green eyes.

"My love?" he asked gently, placing a soft kiss upon her lips.

She nodded in wordless understanding and then pleaded with him, "I'm alright," she panted. She gently stroked the marred flesh of his face in tenderness. "Erik, I am yours. I am always yours."

Christine laid her head back, her hair splayed across the pillow as her limbs entwined with his. _I am his. He is mine._ His tempo heightened, much like the throes of Don Juan Triumphant, with its intoxicatingly dark melodies and almost vulgar rhythms. The pain was gone now, as fleeting as fear. For now, in the arms of the only man she had ever loved, she found only an unimaginable pleasure. Never had she been so intimately connected to anyone. She could not get close enough to him even though her body tried in desperation to mount the summit it seemed to have climbed for months.

"Christine," he whispered with struggling breaths in her ear, "tell me you belong to me."

"Always," she moaned softly.

"You're mine!" he growled.

She gasped as his movements grew more rough, his determination fiercer. Her head tossed back as waves of intoxicating pleasure coursed through her body. There was nothing at that moment. The world was gone, and so were the doubts and fears she had known for so long. There existed only him and her now. But now they were one. Merged in mind, body, and spirit.

She quaked beneath him, her body trembling, and he settled beside her, brushing her hair from her face and watching her closely. There was weariness in her eyes, but it went beyond mere fatigue. A soft smile fluttered upon her lips.

"Did I hurt you, my angel?" he asked softly, pulling her into his embrace as he leaned upon the pillows.

"There is no more pain," she seemed to murmur. Her eyes drifted upwards to his in clarity. There was an understanding in his eyes now. For he had felt that very pain for just as long as their parting had lasted.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N - Here is the final chapter of my story that I promised. Sorry for taking so long to write it. I guess it was hard to finish this story. Or know how to finish it. But I suddenly felt the inspiration today and couldn't deny myself from finishing it. I want to thank all of the readers, especially those who reviewed and provided positive encouragment. It really meant a lot to me. **

** I do plan on writing more soon. I already have a small scene written out after having a moment of inspiration a week ago. I can't give you a timeline. But I would like to post a new story in the next few weeks or so. Keep your eyes open. **

**This chapter, like the last, also has an M rating. If you would care to skip that part of it, continue scrolling down about halfway through the story until you reach the divider. It's safe to read after that. Without further adieu, the final chapter. . .**

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**Chapter 25**

Soft breathing sounded beside her and she turned beneath the quilts to face the sleeping figure of her husband beside her. Erik's arm still lay across her, long tapered fingers splayed across her stomach as though out of an unconscious desire to utterly possess his beloved. Christine took advantage of his state and quietly studied him. His face was more relaxed then she had ever seen it. Stripped of its defenses and masks of emotion, his face was filled with a strange peace that somehow suited him, even though it had evaded him for much of his life. She brushed aside a tendril of dark hair from his brow and smiled softly. The marred flesh that covered half his face was no longer startling to her. There was a certain endearing quality to the vulnerability of his deformity. He was still hesitant to expose his masked face, but he had grown surer of himself now. After all, he had made love to her without the guise of his white mask.

Green eyes opened slowly and regarded her for a moment before she noticed. A soft gasp fell from her lips when she realized he had been watching her, caught in her close study of him.

"My love," he said softly, his hypnotic voice hampered by the hoarseness of morning. His hand reached out to stroke her face and he watched as she smiled, pressing her cheek against the caress of his fingers.

"Erik," she replied softly.

He pulled her into his embrace, feeling the softness of her skin against his own. _I will never tire of this sensation._ She pressed her face against his shoulder, nuzzling it with tender affection. Finally, her eyes sought out the morning light, but it was hidden behind the heavy drapery at the windows. Christine rose from bed, carrying a sheet with her out of modesty.

She turned to look at him as she walked towards the windows. Erik watched her intently as she strode away from his side, his green piercing eyes never leaving her. _Did I really give myself to this man? It seems like a dream. _A soft blush rose to her cheeks and she quickly turned away from him, drawing back the curtains with one hand, while the other rested at her breast, holding the sheet carefully in place.

Sunlight spilled into the darkened room. Christine reveled in its warm rays, lingering in the light that seemed to have been missing until this very moment.

He studied her. The angel, aglow with morning light, stood framed by the unearthly veil of white, her long curls spilling down her naked back. He smiled wickedly at her modesty. Surely, she did not need to hide from him now. Erik rose quickly from the bed, discarding the sheets that had hidden him, and drew up behind her with the stealth that only he possessed. His hands rested upon her bare shoulders and gently drew across the skin in a loving caress. A soft sigh fell from her lips, but she refused to turn and face him.

His mouth sought out the tender flesh at her neck, and he heard her whimper softly as he nipped at it.

"Christine," he seemed to purr.

The mere sound of his voice, uttering only her name, was nearly her undoing. She would never be able to escape that voice, never be able to deny him anything. She was a slave to the voice that the angels had bestowed upon him. Her eyes fluttered closed as she felt his breath upon her skin, which ached for his touches and his kisses.

"You still hide from me?" he seemed to ask, rather then state.

She could not respond, for he held her under his thrall. _His love still frightens me_, she thought. _But I would not have it any other way._ His hands found the sheet that she still clutched to her breast and slowly, with agonizingly deliberate caresses, slid the sheet down her body until it pooled upon the floor.

"Please," she whimpered softly.

"What, my love?" he breathed at her ear, raising more then a few goose bumps across her exposed flesh.

"I am yours," she breathed.

"Mine," he seethed, running his hands across her breasts.

Christine shuddered uncontrollably in his arms, leaning back into his strong chest as he continued to tease her. She could feel the nakedness of his body behind her. His desire for her was quite evident, and a soft moan escaped her lips as he drew himself against her.

His hand drifted lower, and her breath hitched in her throat as the dexterous, musician's fingers found the source of her own desire. She found her body pushing violently against his. His hand remained firm, tormenting her with each movement, with each dip of a finger. Her breaths came quickly, and she felt her hips thrusting blindly outwards with each stroke.

"Do you want me?" he asked, so quietly that it was nearing a whisper. But even a whisper from her angel could send her over the edge.

"Y-yes," she managed.

She felt his hand fall away from her and a cold emptiness fill her bones. But he was leading her back into his chambers. The light did not shine in this area of the room. Only the dying light of a fire flickered in the large fireplace. There was a thick, soft rug set on the floor before the fireplace, for she could feel it beneath her feet. Before she could question his actions, she found that he was guiding her down upon it, resting her body upon the luxurious carpet. Christine suddenly felt vulnerable as she lay beneath him. Erik towered above her in the dark like a strange, avenging angel. Only his eyes shone from the darkened silhouette of his body. A shiver ran throughout her body. He looked both frightening and incredibly alluring at the same time.

"Do not be afraid, my angel," he said, the gloriousness of his voice at its peak. Her body trembled with each word he uttered. She feared what would happen if he fell into song.

"I am not afraid of you," she uttered. "But I. . ."

"What?"

"I am afraid of what you do to me. . .how you affect me so. Your voice. . .it seduces me. I cannot control. . ."

"Let go," he replied, his baritone voice both low and raw at the same time. "Don't hold back from me."

"But angel, it is hard for me. It embarrasses me."

"Never be embarrassed. Do you not see? I want every part of you. I want every touch, every sound from your lips, every hitch in your breath, and every cry of your body. All of it."

"When I hear your voice, even in my dreams, I want nothing else but you. I feel as though I cannot live apart from you, that I must be joined to you always. Is it wrong to think such thoughts? Is it wrong for me to want one person so much?"

His answer came not in words, but in action. He moved upon her, claiming her lips in a suggestive fashion and begging for entrance into her closed mouth. She willingly gave in, felt him claim every part of her. Erik pulled away for a second, still a looming shadow in the dark with his soft, delicate angel beneath him. He began to sing, as though reading the darkest desires of her mind, and she began to quake. Every note seemed to shake her body to its core. Every change in melody seemed to induce a new wave of pleasure that she had fought for so long to control. _Drop all defenses._ It was hard to let go, to allow the feelings he awoke within her to spill over the dam of her will.

She clutched frantically at his arms as he held her. Her eyes were alight with a strange gleam not so unlike a wolf's keen eyes. And for a moment, they seemed to match the fire in his eyes. _We are truly of one flesh now,_ she thought, _the same in every sense. _When they finally merged, their cries muffled in each other, she could feel her tedious grip on control finally loosen and break away. It did not matter anymore. She felt him within her, moving with such passion and vigor, that she no longer cared of the propriety she had held so dear. When the pleasure filled her face, she found him smiling back at her, stroking her face softly, and gently resting his marred cheek against her own.

There was nothing to fear anymore. Giving in was hard, but now she was past the point of no return. She could deny him nothing. She could deny _herself_ nothing.

* * *

Months had passed. The health that had once escaped the Countess Bellamont had quickly returned. The thin frame was now healthy and firm. Eyes that had once been dimmed with sorrow and illness were now more vibrant then they had ever been. Her cheeks glowed with such color that many wondered what her secret was for retaining such beauty. 

But then again, the Countess Bellamont was somewhat of an enigma, just as her elusive husband. They rarely ventured into public, preferring to live their life together in the quiet world of their own estate, with a few friends and servants to care for them.

But suddenly, one summer evening, when all of Paris eagerly awaited the introduction of a new diva upon the stage of the Opera Populaire, the couple stepped out of obscurity. Box Five was now theirs. Rented from the managers on a generous fee, Count Bellmont could often be spotted sitting in shadow amongst the plush red chairs. Dressed in the finest of evening clothes, dark and rich in color, he remained silent in his seat, watching each performance with such intensity that a stranger might think he had a personal interest vested in each show.

But to the knowing spectator, his wife was the new diva upon the stage. Countess Christine Bellamont, trained by none other than her own husband, by far excelled any previous soprano. Some swore that her voice was heaven sent, for no one could possible sing so beautifully, and draw so many tears from even the strictest of eyes. Upon further investigation, one could learn that the new composer to hit Paris' opera was none other than the Count himself. He was indeed a great musician. None could rival the powerful emotive qualities of his music, nor surpass the passion that played out in his operas.

Some even speculated that the character of Don Juan, in the similarly titled opera, was played by the Count himself. But since he did not remove his mask in the latter half of the opera, no one knew for sure. Yet, the effect that the singer had on the new diva was unmistakable. There was more to their performance then pure camaraderie. There was a love so deep, a hunger so pronounced, that only lovers could display in such a way.

_Taken from the Diary of Christine Daae Bellamont,_

_I could not imagine ever loving someone so dear. And yet our love grows more and more with each passing day. I once feared this love when I was young. Perhaps because it is a love so encompassing, so all consuming, that one loses oneself in it. But I was reborn the day that I gave myself to my angel. _

_I was once angered that he took me away from my life in a village bordering a very large forest. That he had watched me since my father's death and plotted my flight from that place so meticulously. But I see now the love that he had for me. Never will I find anyone who rivals that love. I once thought a young man to be my salvation. But I look back on that with wiser eyes. I see that I was afraid of Erik's love for me. Raoul was only an escape from it, but nothing else. When I learned that Erik was not alone in his love, I knew that I must stay with him, that I was meant to stay with him, for I shared his love even though I dared not admit it._

_I love Erik so much. This entry cannot possibly relay the depth of our love. But I can say that music has never left my mind and heart since I married him. It died every time we were parted. But now that we're together, it will remain with me forever. He trains me every day and we sing together to heights that exceed all mortal capacity. My angel has given me everything I could possibly want or need. But truly he is all I want or need. _

_I remain his captive in mind, body, and soul. . . but a willing captive. He is also as chained to me as I am to him. The pain that we have both endured has been slowly forgotten. The pain he had held against God has diminished over the months since our wedding. I even saw him taking communion at mass. For once, I believe my husband has found the peace that has escaped him for so long. He is still reluctant to tell me of his time in Persia, or of the troubled childhood he had endured. But he is slowly confiding in me. I know that someday we will move beyond the past. God is forgiving, and whatever sin that has been committed at his hands has been repaid over the course of his troubled life. He has given up the hatred that held his heart so firmly, and I see a kindness, a philanthropy, replacing it. _

_We will continue to heal together. _

_I must go to him now. The hour is late and I long to sleep in his arms._

**Fini **


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